


Suburban Jedi

by Suburbanjedi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Earth, Eventual Romance, Gen, Healthy Relationships, Original Character(s), Relationship(s), Science Fiction, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-07-12 22:17:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 46,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16004426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suburbanjedi/pseuds/Suburbanjedi
Summary: This story is based upon an idea my co-author and I developed while choreographing fights with homemade lightsabers. The intent was to develop a tale involving the interaction and juxtaposition of the Star Wars universe with our own mundane existence. Expect chapters to arrive slowly but inevitably.





	1. Chapter 1

**Suburban Jedi**

Galactic Calendar Year: 900 BBY

_Destined to last a thousand years, the golden era_ _of_ _the Galactic Republic began with victory at the Seventh Battle of Ruusan and the end of the Dark Age of the Sith Wars. The benevolent Jedi Order, acting as guardians of justice and peace, guided the democratic union of sovereign star systems. Toiling tirelessly to maintain the peace that had been won at so great a cost, they focused inward, prizing stability and harmony above all else._

_At the edge of the Republic’s borders, restlessness propelled the disaffected, the oppressed, the destitute, and the adventurous to seek new horizons of opportunity in a vast gulf of unexplored space known as the Outer Rim. Unwelcomed by the native inhabitants of those mysterious regions and in violation of the Jedi influenced prohibitions on expansion, these renegades struggled to survive in a hostile and lawless frontier. Out of such circumstances are adventures and heroes born..._

Chapter 1 - Darth Coir

To fail, say the wise, requires the cessation of striving, but is it fair to apply this harsh criticism to inanimate, natural entities? By definition, Omus was a failed star, though it possessed neither the ability to strive nor the faculty to set or understand goals. It simply was what the laws of physics demanded it be, a peculiar hybrid object too luminous from the heat of its formation to be a planet yet possessing insufficient mass to ignite thermonuclear fusion. Assigned the ignominious astronomical classification of brown dwarf, it languished in shadowy obscurity eclipsed by the harsh blue-white brilliance of its giant solar sibling, Risi.

Centuries earlier, Omus’ discovery earned it an official record in the Galactic Encyclopedia wherein the unstable radiation field and mass-induced distortion of local space it generated were noted. Multiple probes were destroyed attempting to penetrate its capricious sphere of influence. Offering nothing of value to offset its smoldering malignancy, Omus was dubbed dangerous as well as useless and promptly forgotten. Recently rediscovered by a tenebrous man driven by a ruthless purpose, its potential significance to alter the vector of history grew many-fold, and a host of visitors came once again within its deadly embrace.

Engulfed and battered by Omus' fits of impotent rage, a fleet of warships hovered perilously close to the seething orb. Though crewed by Union sailors, the nine score vessels bore no trace of Union shipyard manufacturing. They were Taurill make; the unmistakable design of the Overmind.

Admiral Aluntri Slaboch, a gaunt, tense, narrow faced man with a beak-like nose was the fleet's commander. Typically at ease with the demands of his position, the staccato, nervous pounding of his forefinger on the armrest of his command chair and the deepening of the worry lines radiating from the corners of his eyes belied an uncharacteristic discontent. Taurill ships were unfamiliar to him and his crew, and he was attempting to operate them in the most hostile environment outside of battle he had ever encountered. Though it was true that a contingent of the furry, six-limbed, scurrying builders of these vessels were on board each ship to assist with maintenance and repair, Slaboch found them of lesser use than protocol droids. Being a hive mind species, the bug-like drones followed orders diligently and without question, but independent thought was as alien to them as their ships were to Slaboch.

Ordinarily, the Overmind's telepathic control of its drones was effective at distances less than a parsec, but the fleet’s battle strategy dictated that the Overmind reside elsewhere in the Risi system. Omus’ seething halo of harsh x-rays disrupted the link with its lesser parts as effectively as the Republic’s most efficient communications jamming technology, leaving the Taurill under Slaboch’s command to wander about aimlessly as if lobotomized. Union sailors were forced to improvise repairs for systems for which they had no training while interacting with a species they despised. The result was a fleet as near to mutiny as Slaboch had ever commanded.

Under optimum conditions, it was an extreme challenge controlling a navy composed of sailors from different planets, nationalities, beliefs, species, and cultures. Technical obstacles such as operating unfamiliar systems exacerbated the stress, but adding the burden of lingering within a magnetic maelstrom surpassed all forbearance. Wisdom and tradition grant every sailor the right to complain, but Slaboch had never heard this much open grumbling and questioning of orders within a fleet that normally ran on iron discipline.

Every captain under his command was reporting excessive numbers of incidents ranging from fights and dereliction of duty, to attempted desertion. Ordinarily, such infractions were rare and discipline swift and public, but the breadth of discontent was so wide that only major offenders staging open mutiny were penalized, and thus far, such actions had been private. Slaboch could ill afford creating martyrs that might goad others into rebellion.

“ _Let things simmer_ ,” he mused to himself, “ _and order is maintained. Let them boil, and chaos reigns._ ”

His strategy was not without merit. Once propelled into combat, the malaise at the core of this discord would dissolve under the stress and discipline of battle. Slaboch eagerly anticipated the directive from his superior to enter hyperspace despite the certainty that the routine maneuver threatened to provoke the greatest risk. Space-time was dangerously warped by the brown dwarf’s mass, and the frequent, unpredictable radiation bursts could scramble electronic components just when they were needed most, but his orders were clear, jump from his current location in defiance of the obvious danger that Omus' gravity created. Slaboch’s engineers were uncertain how many ships they might lose. Estimates ranged from one to ten percent of the fleet, severely weakening them before they even engaged the enemy.

Rumors of vessels destined to be ripped asunder, lost in hyperspace, or crushed into ultra-dense matter raced through the fleet like neutrinos through a planet’s core. The odds of surviving were undoubtedly better than during the coming attack, but combat was a known and well-understood hazard of military life. Being snuffed out of existence by invisible forces of physics engendered fear at a visceral level. Many within the fleet believed that the luckiest ships wouldn’t be able to jump at all when the time came thus missing both the perilous journey and the battle.

Admiral Slaboch disliked his orders with fervor equal to that of his subordinates, but his objections failed to sway the true master of the fleet, a dark, brooding, and powerful tyrant. Only a few, like Slaboch, knew him by his true title, Darth Coir, a Sith immersed fully in the ways of the dark side of the Force. To the rest of the fleet and the systems over which he reigned, he was simply Lord Coir, the Uniter of the Outworlds.

Having arisen from humble origins, using means that were paradoxically both benign and malignant, Coir single-handedly forged the colonies of the Outer Rim into a new political construct. Dubbed “The Union,” the new human-alien empire rapidly grew in power to challenge the dominion of the pirates and criminal gangs operating beyond the reach or care of the Republic.

  


Lost in his frustrated, private musings, Slaboch neglected the background hum of his bridge officers until the subtle shift from official naval chatter to mutinous grumbling caught his ear. Lieutenant Verrat’s annoying voice rose above the others, grating on the Admiral's nerves with its paradoxical combination of haughty arrogance and whiny petulance. The weasel faced, spoiled son of a wealthy aristocrat was a consummate agitator who perceived his military service through the distorted lens of lust for power within the growing Union government.

“…and this folly is the brain child of that crazy Coir. He risks our lives for his insane schemes pursuing unnecessary risks. The pirates are afraid to attack our fleet anymore. We should stay in our own systems and keep the peace we won with valor and honor.”

Several of Verrat’s toadies, emboldened by Slaboch's distracted lack of response, murmured their assent. Even a few who normally disliked and spurned Verrat nodded at his assertions. The extent of the depth of disaffection was worse than the Admiral had feared requiring his immediate attention.

“Enough! This talk is treason..."

Slaboch was fully prepared to dress Verrat down and restore order. His tone threatened demotion and imprisonment for any that disobeyed, but the opportunity was denied him by a greater power.

“Well said, Admiral Slaboch,” interrupted a chilling voice infused with lightly veiled sarcasm and surrounded by a thick halo of impending doom.

A collective shudder ran through the bridge’s occupants. Detaching itself from a dark corner, a shadow walked among their company. Though initially veiled in an inky, obscuring fog, the enveloping black mist vanished like a dream and was as easily forgotten. Replaced by a deadly specter, the apparition was nevertheless a man. Dressed in black from the toes of his boots to the cowl of his cloak that concealed his face in greater shadow, he could be mistaken for a harmless monk if not for the aura of malevolence and fear that preceded him. Each terrified soul on the bridge knew with dread certainty that it was Lord Coir who strode purposely towards the Admiral.

Panic consumed Slaboch, imagining the approaching menace not as a man but as Death itself coming to claim his soul. Coir's terrible reputation for ruthlessness instilled fear throughout the Union. Rumors of officers eliminated for lesser crimes than failing to control subordinates were rampant. Slaboch had never personally witnessed any executions, but the sometimes subtle and other times overpowering sense of foreboding Coir emanated made the Admiral a believer. The fact that Coir was a Sith lord with dark and sinister powers made certitude of belief. By failing to suppress the insolent banter of his subordinates, Slaboch had brought ruin upon himself.

Jumping to his feet, the admiral hastily executed what he grimly anticipated to be his final salute.

“Lord Coir.”

Immediately following his example, the remainder of the bridge crew stood ramrod straight while avoiding eye contact with their commander's frightening master.

“My apologies for this insolence, Lord Coir,” Slaboch hastily added understanding the futility of anything he said in his own defense. “I…I will have this lieutenant punished. He will…”

Slaboch’s voice failed him as the ghostly specter drifted slowly and deliberately by without glancing in his direction.

“Do not be hasty, Admiral,” murmured the surprisingly innocuous darkness. "I will manage this situation for you."

Justifiably, Slaboch was not encouraged, contemplating instead how he was fated to die. " _Will he strike out suddenly with his light saber_ ,” mused the Admiral, _“or will he crush me slowly with his mind?"_

Neither fell outcome transpired as Coir deliberately advanced toward the impertinent lieutenant. Though Slaboch felt psychic distress accompanying the Sith's passing, resurrection of hope dared take root in his fevered brain.

“I suspect we are hearing nothing more than the nervous thoughts that precede battle,” said Coir. “Let me allay their…concerns.”

Silently, Coir approached until he stood mere inches behind his victim. Sweat beading on the lieutenant’s forehead dripped from beneath his cap. Swaying on his feet, Verrat nearly fainted from the Sith's personal attention. Having a powerful father could not save him from this demon. Coir’s supremacy over the fleet was absolute. None dared question or test his authority and live.

Though Coir whispered, his voice magically manifested throughout the bridge as though his lips were adjacent to each sailor’s ear.

“We will be walking with Death today,” began the mesmerizing susurrus. “Death will have his ration of souls. Not the wisest can say in advance how many or who individually, but we are not entirely helpless against him. Avoiding Death's fatal affection is possible by remaining loyal and obedient, thus diverting his attention towards our enemies. We only draw him back when we bicker among ourselves. Death loves dissent. Death loves…” Coir paused briefly before finishing the thought, “…mutiny.”

A death sentence if applied to an individual, that word nearly made Verrat faint. He struggled to stay standing.

“Is it wise to draw Death’s attention unnecessarily?” probed the Sith. “Is it wise, Lieutenant Verrat, to invite Death into your company before the battle even begins?"

Too terrified to answer, the trembling lieutenant shook his head rapidly like a man caught in the initial onslaught of a seizure.

"No? Excellent answer. I am gratified to confirm that you have seen the error of your earlier assertions.” Addressing the other trembling subordinates, he asked “Would anyone else delight in debating this issue with me?”

None possessed the courage to accept his invitation. No one moved. No one dared breathe. Verrat’s pulse quickened. Coir could feel his fear, could sense the trepidation of each person on the bridge. Fear satisfied his desire, and he soaked himself in its heady embrace.

“So you all agree. It is well that you do. By focusing on our duties and obeying orders, we each may end the day parting amicably with Death knowing that he selected our foe as less worthy of life.”

Coir paused again letting his audience suffer in uncertainty. Only the faint background hum of the ship’s power systems disturbed the silence.

“I am certain that Lieutenant Verrat feels the same. Is that not so?”

“Yes, my Lord,” he croaked barely able to speak, his mouth dry as if full of dust. A drop of sweat worked its way to the tip of his rat-like nose where it hung as if afraid to let go.

“Good. Very good. Such a wise and obedient crew. All mariners know that it is foolish to tempt Death, for he is ever present, always hiding in the shadows ready to strike the unwary and deliver his cruel justice.”

For the eternity encapsulated in a few seconds, metaphorical and manifest death was present as one to the crew caught in his spell. The illusion faded. Only their supreme commander and a desire to remain faithful to his orders and to his will remained in its wake.

“The fleet needs to maintain discipline, Admiral,” said Coir as his attention shifted away from the trembling underling. “I trust there will be no further insubordination.”

“You assume correctly, my lord.”

Without acknowledging his second in command, Coir walked towards the exit.

“Notify me when the enemy fleet arrives," he added before he disappeared from sight.

The sweat bead suspended from Verrat’s nose released its tenuous bond and plummeted to the floor. Audible in the graveyard silence, the splash startled the quaking crew, but like terrified rabbits, they remained motionless, afraid to move.

Inured to some degree to his master's moods, Slaboch recovered first. Collapsing into his command chair, he ponder ed the miracle of his survival, for to have escaped the terrible red glow of the Sith’s light saber was miraculous. Slaboch's fear soon dissipated, yielding to the natural and forgivable desire to command powers similar to that of his master.

Rarely was any man content with his station and limitations, but Slaboch reconsidered his hasty jealousy. Power beyond that of most individuals was already his. He commanded a vast fleet, and Lord Coir was known for not interfering with his subordinates once they were committed to battle. The supreme leader of the Outworlds preferred to plan, scheme, manipulate, and give orders, then savor the ripening of the fruit of his labors.

Perhaps it was enough for Slaboch to be on the winning side fighting for a cause in which he still believed. Perhaps it was enough just to be alive. Coir was a devil, but his effect on the Outworlds convinced many that he was a guardian angel, and they worshiped him as such. Slaboch couldn’t dispute their belief. Coir had saved the Outworlds from the Jedi led Republic's policies that left them helpless against the depredations of aggressive and powerful criminals.

All Outworlders knew that it was more than apathy or disinterest of the Outer Rim that motivated the Republic. If neglect had been the Jedi's only sin, the Outworlds might have united long before Coir, but the monk-like leaders of the Republic saw the Union not as a collection of people fighting for freedom, but as a rival empire to be sabotaged and weakened. Until Lord Coir had joined, or rather taken command of their cause, the hated Jedi used their power to sow dissent among the Outworlds and actively prevented them from uniting. Slaboch's anger flared like a solar prominence as he stewed over the injustice of it all.

" _Well_ ," he thought to himself, " _Now the Outworlds are united and we are strong_. We even have a mystical guardian of our own."

With Coir's leadership, the Republic was kept at bay, as were the pirates the Jedi used to enforce their will. Today the Union was on the eve of victory. One last decisive battle would free them from the tyranny of the Republic forever. Slaboch's role in the historical contest was critical. Feelings of purpose suffused his being, and he rededicated himself to ensuring that the day’s endeavor culminated in absolute victory. To achieve that, discipline and morale had to be maintained and operating at their highest levels.

Provided no other orders, the bridge crew remained at attention. Slaboch considered their fate. Lord Coir had delivered no punishment and recommended none. The Admiral wisely followed his lead.

“At ease.”

The crew relaxed, slightly.

“No more idle talk. Mission essential speech only. Focus on your duties. We will win this battle by following orders. Mister Verrat, broadcast Lord Coir's speech to the entire fleet. I think it will have an inspirational effect. Everyone else, carry on.”

Tension on the bridge gradually subsided under the press of duty. With little to occupy his attention ahead of the pending battle, Slaboch mused upon the historic moment that brought him to this critical place and in time. The admiral knew that it was not just the crew and junior officers harboring discontent for Coir's battle strategy. Even Slaboch’s squadron commanders had fought against it during the command briefing where the plan was first divulged.

  


Ostensibly for a training exercise, the entire Union fleet had been gathered by Coir into a unified armada and launched via central control into hyperspace towards an undisclosed location. His key fleet officers objected to leaving so many systems undefended and for grouping all their ships into a tempting target for annihilation. By force of will and judicious use of intimidation, Coir coerced them to obey without revealing the true nature of his scheme. Only when they were isolated in hyperspace, invisible to spies and cutoff from regular communication, did Coir assemble his squadron commanders to reveal his true purpose.

Set on Coir’s flagship, the command briefing was staged in a shadowy conference room where the aggrieved attendees surrounded an oblong table carved from a single crystal of sapphire. Only their faces and the table’s deep blue surface were made visible by the overhead spotlights; the extent of the room remained invisible in the darkness. Seven humanoids sat in attendance. In addition to Slaboch, who occupied one end of the table, the six subordinate commanders were grouped in threes on each side. An empty chair for their absent leader sat opposite the admiral.

Three of Slaboch’s officers were human: Commanders Titus Inniuil, Chas Mearganta, and Shaye Granna. The aliens included a Quarren named Forgach; Kant Jaxel, a Zabrak; and Gaylynn Shoto, a Togruta. Slaboch was displeased with the process that led to selection of these commanders. None had been vetted by him. Several retained their rank as a condition of committing their ships to the nascent alliance. The rest were selected by the Union's politically motivated parliament.

Of the former set, Mearganta was the worst and never could have passed Slaboch's rigid assessment criteria. An arrogant ass with an ego nearly as large as his outsized reputation, Mearganta was tall, dashing, handsome, and every inch the classic space opera hero. True to that model, he was reckless and unpredictable. As often as he achieved stunning victories with his rash bravado, he just as frequently suffered horrendous losses. Well known for daring tactics, Mearganta relied too much on luck for Slaboch’s tastes. So many ships were routinely destroyed in the dramatic commander’s ongoing misadventures; he would have exhausted their numbers long ago if it weren't for the prodigious output of his home system’s shipyards, which by luck were the best in the Outer Rim at construction, repair, and refitting. So battered was Mearganta's navy by constant war that Slaboch doubted a single vessel in his fleet possessed an original component.

Despite being a careless and impatient officer, Mearganta had won great renown with his heroism. Nearly a quarter century of fighting the pirates had cloaked him in myth, inspiring awe and reverence from his subordinates. Though entering his elder years, he retained a shiny mantle of dash and bravado. It was insufficient glitter, however, to eclipse the indignity of being upstaged by Coir, who in less than five years had accomplished what the gallant patriarch could not in twenty-five. Mearganta’s resentment over sharing his position as hero of the Outworlds was only surpassed by the humiliation he harbored over the necessity to join Coir’s armada as anything other than its supreme leader. To assuage his bruised ego, he openly condemned the Union’s dark leader as a ruthless dictator and similarly heaped contumely upon Slaboch, whom he dismissed as an unimaginative, by-the-book leader.

Forgach was another troublesome subordinate but for different reasons. The squid-faced alien was akin to Mearganta in that she also possessed a superiority complex, but rather than being impetuous like her egotistical peer, extreme caution ruled her every action. Obedient to the nature of her race, she was a better accountant than military leader. Obeying orders gave her great pleasure, but only after she had meticulously planned and organized every detail down to the quantum level. Always late to engage the enemy, her need for perfection was paralyzing. The rush to assemble and deploy on this exercise had put her in a state bordering on apoplexy, giving her ample reason to despise Slaboch with intensity equal to Mearganta’s.

The remainder of the officers present, if not the optimum candidates for their posts, were more tractable and to Slaboch’s liking. Competent and obedient, they retained the critical ability to think on their own when necessary. Such leaders were essential and of greater worth than a thousand heroes or bookkeepers. Slaboch swore to himself that if he survived the pending campaign, he would demand from his lord the right to reshape the officer corps as he saw fit. Mearganta and Forgach would be the first victims of his purge.

Aware of Slaboch's opinion and suspicious of his intent, the rancorous pair alternated glaring at the admiral with unconcealed loathing. During the tense, uncomfortable silence, Inniuil verified the room’s security measures.

“Surveillance defense protocols are in place, Admiral. No signals may leave or enter this room. Our conversation will be secure as ordered.”

“Thank you, Commander Inniuil. We now only need await Lord Coir.”

Thin on patience, Mearganta pounded his fist dramatically on the table causing the plethora of medals on his jacket to jangle like wind chimes in a storm.

“Why has this fleet been ordered into hyperspace with no set destination? I’m not used to charging off blindly into the yonder. How can I maintain order within my own command if I can't be trusted with our battle plan?”

Slaboch pondered Mearganta’s blatant hypocrisy. The blustering fool often entered battle with no coherent strategy other than to engage and destroy the enemy on whatever random terms fate provided. An arbitrary trip to an unknown destination would serve him in lieu of planning just as well.

“You must have patience, Commander Mearganta,” urged Slaboch with a distinct lack of sympathy. “The Union is not a democracy, this fleet even less so. Lord Coir will explain everything in this briefing. If you cannot maintain discipline among your own, perhaps Lord Coir will provide you some advice on inspiring subordinates.”

Mearganta’s faced turned as red as a Zeltron’s.

“Will he? How will he do that? My captains answer to me and no one else, and if I don’t get some answers now, I’ll return my fleet to Gattantche to protect the shipyards.”

Slaboch’s bony fingers began a slow drumming cadence upon the table’s crystal surface. Pleasant musings of drawing his blaster and shooting Mearganta between his aquamarine eyes tempted him briefly, but impetuousness was incompatible with his nature. Discipline ruled his every action. Instead, he leaned forward and locked eyes with his foe.

“Do I have to remind you, Commander, of the pledge of obedience you made to Lord Coir and the Union? Do I need to remind you how Lord Coir saved your fleet from disaster when you recklessly tried to attack the pirate’s heavily defended capital with no other Union support? If Lord Coir had not learned of your folly and rescued you by utilizing imaginative and dangerous micro hyperspace jumps to divert Cabellar’s planetary defenses, the pitiful remnants of your fleet would never had made it home. You owe him your allegiance. More than that, you owe him your faith in his ability to lead us to victory.”

Temporarily abashed, Mearganta sagged back against his seat, but immediately resumed seething impotently with his clenched fists resting uneasily on the table. Commander Forgach seized the awkward moment to press her own agenda. Her deep voice echoed in the austere room like whale song underwater, and her facial tentacles writhed subtly.

“I too must protest this venture, Sir. Being also new to this Union, I am concerned with this demand for blind obedience and lack of information. Does Lord Coir not trust his own senior fleet officers? Does he trust you Admiral? Do you know where we are going?”

Though Coir had imparted the intent and general outline of his plan to Slaboch, the destination had not been specified.

“I do not,” Slaboch admitted.

“Ah, then the most senior commander does not know where his fleet is going?”

She raised her tentacles in the air in what amounted to a show of astonishment for her race.

“Does anyone in this room think this is acceptable?”

There were murmurs of discontent from everyone but Slaboch. Mearganta seized this opportunity to explode again.

“Exactly my point! We aren’t junior lieutenants, Admiral, to be pushed around and kept in the dark. We are command veterans who deserve respect!”

Frustrated beyond endurance and emboldened by Mearganta's example, each commander began shouting his or her complaints at once. Mearganta ranted to assuage his abused ego, Inniuil complained about the excessive secrecy, Forgach fretted over the inability to plan and organize with so little information, while the remainder questioned the sanity of concentrating the entire fleet in one unknown place far from the systems they were supposed to protect. Slaboch did his best to deflect and mollify their concerns with no success. Once again, Mearganta’s bluster dominated the rest, smothering their voices like a clap of thunder.

“The concern, Admiral, is that we are being kept in the dark! Where the Hell is Coir?”

“Right here, Commander Mearganta,” murmured a calm and level voice mysteriously manifesting itself from the far end of the conference table that had been unoccupied mere moments earlier.

Astonished silence befell as the officers, including Slaboch, jumped to their feet and gaped open-mouthed at the sinister man in black, who sat in the high backed obsidian chair that none had heard or seen move to accommodate the arrival of its occupant. Expressing the most surprise was Inniuil, whose security sensors had given no hint of Coir’s entry. Convinced that he had made some error, his normally pink, bald head turned grayish-white in alarm as beads of sweat trickled down from his smooth pate.

“My…my, Lord. How did you? The security scanners…”

“…Are adequate, Commander Inniuil. They will function to exclude their intended audience, which is everyone but me. Be seated.” A sly smile graced his face. “There is no need to stand at attention.”

Like the after effects of carbonite, their paralysis abated. Mearganta and Forgach sat first disgusted by their instinctive deferential reaction to Coir’s authority. The remaining four commanders executed a hasty salute and awkwardly followed suit. Slaboch maintained his dignity by sitting last.

Having experienced many of these sudden, disconcerting appearances by his superior, Slaboch was developing what little immunity one not trained in the ways of the Force could develop against their effect. Observing the discomfiture of the others would have made the admiral laugh if it were not for his lack of a sense of humor and his acute awareness of the deadly menace behind Coir’s softly spoken words.

“It is unusual,” Coir continued “is it not, to move an armada without informing the senior fleet officers of the destination? Why would a supreme commander do such a thing?"

Silence answered his question.

"Anyone?” Coir prodded.

“To maintain the highest level of secrecy,” postulated Inniuil.

“Excellent answer, but does this level of secrecy imply that the supreme commander does not trust his highest ranking fleet officers?"

Coir needed neither to observe Mearganta’s and Forgach’s expressions nor to query with the Force to divine their opinions. From the others, uncertainty radiated like phantasms of vaporous doubt. Only Slaboch betrayed no emotion. Wisdom earned by experience had taught him not to attract the attention of a creature so dangerous. Perhaps emboldened by his earlier success, Commander Inniuil tentatively provided his opinion.

“Not necessarily, Lord Coir.”

“Explain.”

“Denying front line officer’s knowledge could be a deception to deliberately attract attention to this mission. Confusion and consternation among the senior officers spread quickly down the chain of command throughout every port in the Union prior to our departure. Spies trying to track this fleet no doubt found the information very tantalizing. Word has likely already reached the ears of their masters, and such tidings will dominate their attention. Security, you see, sir, if overdone, can backfire by drawing extra scrutiny.”

“An astute analysis, but why then would I do this?”

“I am afraid, Lord Coir, without further intelligence, I could spin a thousand possible scenarios as to why you would want to attract attention to this mission.”

“You have wisdom, Commander. The ability to see beyond your own ego and ambitions, by admitting your limitations, forebodes well for your prospect of advancement within the Union.”

With the exception of the stone-faced Slaboch, Inniuil suffered glares from his peers seething with varying levels of jealousy and hatred. Slaboch had observed this method of pairing of the egos of his officers against each other by Coir before. The dark lord was delivering a blatant lesson aimed at Mearganta and Forgach. If they were shrewd, they would learn from it. If not, then they would eventually be dead.

“Commander Inniuil is correct in that this mission is a grand deception, but it is a deception with a grand purpose; a purpose in which, I am certain, each of you will be pleased and eager to participate.”

A slight gesture of Coir’s right hand summoned a holographic star chart of the Outer Rim.

“Our destination is the Risi system.”

Puzzled expressions peered through the display past the flashing halo marking their destination. Even Slaboch involuntarily muttered “What?” Coir savored their puzzlement.

“Yes. I know. It is a worthless system with no habitable planets and a defunct mining industry. There is nothing to protect and nothing to attack. Why go there?”

Blank stares met his inquiry.

“Why indeed?”

Their rapt attention was his to exploit. He cryptically answered his own question.

“To set a trap.”

Desperate to know his intent, they awaited its revelation, but Coir would not yield it so easily. They had to feel the plan for themselves. It had to arise from the depths of their subconscious as if it were an inevitable and fundamental truth. He would spoon feed them the components of his brilliance in small courses and test their skill.

“Has anyone noticed anything at all special about this pitiful star system that the Union has claimed, but no one disputes?”

Excelling in tactical thought, Slaboch anticipated his master’s lead.

“It is less than a dozen hours via hyperspace to Cabellar.”

“Correct.”

A second star system within the hovering map grew brighter. Many hundreds of light years from Risi, its brilliance reflected upon the table’s shiny surface.

“Though not close in absolute terms,” Coir explained, “Admiral Slaboch has seen the truth. There are no major gravitation disturbances along the hyperspace path that joins Risi and Cabellar. We will be approximately ten hours distant from the pirate’s heart of power, gentlemen.”

“Do you intend to attack their capital, Lord Coir?” wondered Mearganta with obvious enthusiasm for such a daring gambit.

“Precisely.”

“At last! We move boldly,” shouted Mearganta while slapping the palm of his hand upon the table.

“Does everyone else agree that this plan as outlined thus far is a wise move?” asked Coir

“Our fleet is not large enough to contest theirs, especially backed up as they are by planetary defenses,” observed Slaboch.

“What if there was no fleet at Cabellar?”

“The pirates always leave a portion of their fleet behind, Lord Coir. Combined with their in system stationary weaponry, it is easily enough to repel us. They know our numbers and they are not fools.”

“All men are fools at times, Admiral. I intend to exploit their foolishness.”

“How?”

“What if I told you that we had a second fleet in addition to this mighty armada? What then would you think of this plan?”

“It still would not work, Lord Coir” interjected Forgach. "Even a fleet of twice our size could not take Cabellar. In preparation for such an attack, I have run numerous simulations. No matter how many ships I postulate, we cannot defeat both a sizeable pirate fleet and the planetary defenses. One or the other has to be absent to gain victory.”

Drawn into the open debate, Gaylynn Shoto, the reticent blue-skinned Togruta offered her thoughts for consideration.

“Where would we hide such a fleet? Even ours will be found eventually. If Inniuil’s conjecture is correct, then hyperspace scouts and probes have already been dispatched to find us. The pirates certainly won’t leave their capital unguarded until we are located.”

“And when they find us?” asked Coir.

“They will send everything they have to destroy us once and for all,” concluded Forgach pleased with her assessment.

Coir was also pleased, but for his own subtle reasons. Feigning despair, Coir asked, “Is there no hope for this plan then even if one fleet is unknown to the pirates?”

Mearganta snorted his derision.

“Fantasy! What is the point? No one will help us. What is gathered here today is all the Outworlds have to offer. The Republic wishes us to disappear. The Chiss Ascendancy desires the same. The only other warships belong to the pirates. Where is your illusory fleet, Lord Coir?”

“It is waiting for us near Risi.”

“Who is providing this alleged flotilla?”

“The Taurill.”

Chaos erupted once again with everyone, except Slaboch, shouting in consternation.

“Those filthy bugs?”

“A deal with the Overmind?”

“We can’t trust them.”

“He’s sold us all to the worst kind of devil!”

Coir allowed Slaboch to restore order.

“Quiet, damn it! Remember where you are. This is a mission briefing, not a fool planetary congress! Now sit down and be quiet. That is an order!”

“But the Taurill are mindless bugs…” exclaimed Mearganta unable to quell his loathing for a species he considered a verminous cross between apes and lice.

“I said quiet, Commander! Lord Coir will explain.”

“Thank you, Admiral. I will indeed explain. No doubt you fear and distrust the hive mind and not for unjust reasons. The Overmind does not understand races composed of individuals any more than we comprehend a race composed of only one intellect. It sees us as crawling ants with no central control; the concept of individuals working together to become a whole is too foreign for it to comprehend. When the Overmind looks at our society, it cannot locate a single controlling entity with which to collude as a peer. We in turn see its parts as mindless automatons and never treat with the true sentience behind their race. It is a vicious, self-defeating cycle that has left the Taurill isolated from, and despised by, the rest of the galaxy. No one makes alliance with the Taurill, and no one befriends them.”

Each of Coir’s assertions was met with nods of agreement.

"Until now. By attacking the Mavathyn system, abandoning it, and deliberately leaking that information to the Overmind, I left an attractive target ripe for conquest. It couldn’t resist and took the bait. When the pirates returned, as I knew they would since I similarly divulged information to them that the Taurill were coming, they nearly caught the Overmind. I graciously interceded, deliberately waiting to rescue the besieged master of its race until all was nearly lost. It was a marvelous subterfuge disguised as a seemingly compassionate act that was widely denounced within the Union as a waste of resources, but the Overmind was grateful enough to deign to parlay with me and discover what I had to offer for its assistance.”

“What did you offer?” asked Inniuil.

“What the Overmind so desperately wants in a Galaxy that reviles it; room to expand and the means to do it. Up until now, the Overmind has been limited in its ability to colonize beyond its home system for two reasons. Hate and mistrust by its neighbors denies it room to expand, and its inability to control its drones across interstellar distances prevents it from seeking opportunity farther afield. For the latter, I have taught the Overmind arcane techniques developed before the Sith-Jedi wars to project thought through hyperspace. For the former, I have offered the Overmind two pirate systems proximal to its home for its own use after we have won this war.”

For the third and final time, the room erupted in distraught turmoil with Mearganta shouting the loudest and displaying the greatest dissent.

“You villain! This is outrageous! Outrageous I say! The Overmind will make slaves of them. I will have no part in this. I hereby withdraw from this venture. My fleet will return to…urggh...”

Coir stood abruptly. His left hand balled tightly into a shaking fist. The air turned opaque as if transformed into a viscous liquid suffused with soot. Mearganta choked. A series of grotesque gurgles and hisses expressing his desperate attempts to breathe were the only sounds the normally bombastic commander could utter. His entire body compressed uniformly as if rapidly descending deep under miles of water. Breath drawn could not be exhaled. Movement was impossible.

The onlookers were equally still but by choice instead of force. Paralyzed with fright, they stared, impotent to intervene and leery to try.

“Must I remind you, Mearganta, that when you joined this fleet, you swore an oath to obey my commands, all of my commands? Now you dare threaten me with desertion! There is only one way to depart my company and you are walking that short and terminal path right now. Swear that you will obey me, Mearganta, or I will kill you and replace you with someone who will! Swear it!”

There was no answer. The pompous fool could make none. Turning blue, his eyes rolled back into his head. Coir released him, and he collapsed on the table gasping and wheezing, his breath fogging the perfectly smooth surface. As the abused mutineer struggled to recover and compose himself, Coir’s anger thickened and spread, sapping all warmth from the room replacing it with the cold of deep space.

“I am awaiting your answer, Mearganta. My patience has expired.”

“I swear,” he gasped. “I swear.”

The obscuring veil of eldritch fog dissipated returning the room to its prior ambiance of harsh central illumination and pitch-black surroundings. Wiping cold sweat from his brow, Mearganta slumped against the back of his chair, his haughty arrogance banished for the moment.

All traces of menace, so palpable mere moments before, vanished from Coir’s demeanor. Satisfied the incident was resolved, he reclaimed his seat with poise.

“There will be no more insubordination or debate today from anyone,” he stated with the surety of an autocrat having crushed all opposition. “Listen carefully to your orders."

The galactic projection expanded until only the blue giant, Risi, and its eleven orbiting companions hovered before the cowed assemblage. A slight pulsing glow surrounded the fifth planet, a world of barren volcanic rock mantled with a leprous complexion of yellow sulfur, ochre pumice, and black obsidian.

"Blayne's End, an abandoned mining colony. We meet the Taurill there to exchange ships. Our allies will remain in our gunboats as a decoy fleet to draw in the pirates. Hungering for the opportunity to destroy in one decisive action what they believe is the entirety of the Union’s navy; they will be deceived and unprepared for the surprise the Taurill have in waiting.

"Can we trust the bugs?" Inniuill's obsession with security compelled him to risk Coir’s ire, but the Sith was not so volatile and reckless as to punish critical thought and respectful inquiries.

"The Overmind can only lose by betraying me,” answered Coir with an approving nod. “Think of its mobile parts as ants if you must, but Taurill drones are absolutely loyal and selfless to their master. No traitors dwell in their midst, and their industriousness within this worthless ball of rock has resulted in the rapid completion of a series of very powerful particle cannons hidden beneath the planet’s surface."

Further magnification revealed the abandoned mining planet in precise detail. Orbiting nearly a light minute away was a simulation of the Union’s ships. An animation of a larger pirate armada exited hyperspace and moved instantly to attack.

"Mistaking the lurking Taurill for our fleet on battle maneuvers, the pirates will engage the decoys. The Overmind will conduct a fighting retreat towards the planet and scatter its ships, letting the hidden particle cannons decimate the pirates to even up the odds. Fighting in a manner designed to extend the battle by giving false hope of victory to the enemy, the Overmind will sacrifice its drones, and our ships as necessary, to purchase the time we need to conquer Cabellar."

"Why, that's brilliant!" exclaimed Kant Jaxel breaking his long silence.

Slaboch also approved and nodded his head in deference to the plan's genius, but nevertheless remained thoughtful. Examining his private display of the Risi system, the canny admiral guessed the remainder of Coir's strategy.

"Where will we be at the onset of this encounter?"

Coir sensed the mind of his second and silently praised his astuteness.

“Myself, the leaders at this table, your captains, and their crews will occupy the Taurill ships hidden within the magnetosphere of the system's seventh planet."

Moving outward from Blayne's End, the projection centered around Omus. Waxing and waning in spasms of florid hell-fire, it dared anyone to approach. Defying its animus, the simulation zoomed in until scores of ships were highlighted against the backdrop of the huge glowing orb. Of bizarre alien design, their streamlined hulls resembled predatory denizens of a primitive ocean swimming above a boiling crater of molten rock.

"This brown dwarf is currently twenty light minutes from Blayne's End. Its unstable pulsations will render us invisible to sensors, and we will emit no probing energy of our own to betray our presence. A series of mirrors disguised as debris and old communication satellites have been placed throughout the system to allow us to use optical methods to spy our foe's arrival. The enemy will be too eager to crush our decoy force to suspect, let alone investigate, the real purpose of these objects. Upon visual confirmation that our quarry has taken the proffered bait, we make the jump. Our space-time distortion signature will be obscured by the failed star’s radio-magnetic pyrotechnics.”

Despite their fear of Coir, angry murmuring ensued from all but Mearganta, who apparently able to learn, said nothing. Surprisingly, it was the cautious, but genuinely concerned Slaboch who dared voice his disquiet above the background hum of discontent.

“My Lord, launching into hyperspace near such a massive object is extremely dangerous. Many ships could be lost in the attempt. There are unpredictable effects that even the navicomps can’t calculate.”

"Every battle has risks and losses. Enough ships will succeed to do the job."

Obeying Coir's mental commands, the brown dwarf faded, and the Cabellar system materialized in its wake. Like a vast school of sharks, the substitute Union fleet appeared from the nether and swarmed towards the pirate capital planet in sync with his narrative. Non-Union ships, both military and civilian, vanished in bursts of fire and light until none remained.

"Speed and surprise will allow us to swiftly annihilate every enemy vessel in the system. Nothing must escape to warn the pirate forces at Blayne's End. Only the planetary defenses will remain.”

“They cannot be silenced without rendering the planet uninhabitable,” stated Slaboch with a trace of glee at the prospect of rendering the capital of his people's hated enemy into a sterile rock.

“As satisfying as that would be, it is contrary to my greater plan. Therefore, I will personally lead the surface assault and secure the planet for the Union."

"But the danger, Lord Coir," worried Slaboch.

Coir chuckled with the deep rumbling bass of a dragon.

"Is worth the risk, which is not as great as you think. I have methods to ensure that I will safely achieve planet-fall near the capital city of Shan-Ri-Mune. From there I intend to capture the pirate leaders alive and force them to accept my terms of surrender. As demonstrated here today, I have methods of persuasion to ensure their compliance.”

The assemblage shuffled nervously remembering Mearganta’s recent brush with death.

“Those pirates that survive the process of rehabilitation will be returned to their lairs to work as my agents. Thus will end forever the fledgling Pirate Confederation, and from behind its corrupt shadow will emerge the Union as a force to rival the Republic.”

It was a sound plan with a victory prize to tempt even the most cautious and cynical among his commanders. Slaboch was the first to stand and salute, followed hastily by the six commanders. Coir remained seated accepting their accolades.

“Your devotion to this venture is duly noted, ladies and gentlemen. We arrive at Blayne's End in six hours. That gives you precious little time to review the extensive intelligence gathered on the Confederation’s planetary defense systems. Once we are in position at Omus, we will be too preoccupied riding out the storm. Dismissed! Except you, Admiral.”

Not until Coir was alone with Slaboch, did he speak his intent.

“I want Mearganta watched, Admiral. I sense treason remains in him. He may attempt to run with his fleet, or worse try some stupid gallant maneuver. Make sure that when he returns to his ship that enough of your most loyal men go with him to be able to depose him if necessary. Have a new leader selected in advance. One we can trust.”

“Yes, Lord Coir.”

Coir chuckled evilly making Slaboch's skin crawl.

“Better still, let Mearganta and ‘his’ fleet lead the diversionary attack on the planetary defenses. Perhaps he’ll make a martyr of himself.”

Favorably disposed to obey such orders, battle assignments gelled in Slaboch's mind. Being a chivalrous fool, Mearganta would gladly lead the assault, taking the brunt of the casualties. Failing to recognize the suicidal nature of the assignment, the dupe would assume that it was his due as the bravest and most capable commander in the fleet.

The remaining commanders would deal with whatever naval forces survived the initial onslaught, or any stray vessels arriving in system during the assault. Slaboch would lead the largest star destroyers as screening cover for the Marine landing ships. The admiral briefly considered attempting to dissuade Coir from participating in the dangerous ground assault, but knew that his cautionary advice would be ignored for the simple fact that it was unnecessary.

  


Departing Slaboch’s bridge and leaving the chastened Lieutenant Verrat behind, Coir swept through the corridors of the fleet's flagship like a Force Wraith. Silent and nearly invisible, he was a flowing, dark, ethereal presence, whose otherwise undetectable approach betrayed itself with an eerie disquiet of growing menace. For those less sensitive to the influence of the Force, the stomping cadence of his honor guard’s boots upon the metal floor was an additional clue. The battle-hardened veterans trailing in Coir’s wake marched at a fast trot to match their master’s pace. Wearing dark blue armor, the four marines shared a purely ceremonial post. Few had the power to harm a Sith lord, and no one with those credentials existed under Coir's command.

Sailors along Coir's path sprang to attention. Heels clicked together. With their left fists held against their hearts, they symbolically expressed every Union soldier's pledge to sacrifice his or her life while keeping their right hand free to fight for the Union's preservation.

A transport tube would have borne Coir to his quarters more efficiently and without disrupting the crew's routine, but a deeper purpose governed his actions. While mingling among his minions, Coir experienced their emotions, comprehended the state of their morale, and assessed their combat readiness. Earlier, he had sensed the growing, ubiquitous shift towards doubt and dissent. The broadcast of Lieutenant Verrat’s reprimand was already sowing numerous, positive seeds. Rapidly germinating, they sprouted and spread their tendrils throughout the fleet.

Fear became valor. Doubt became resolve. Rebellion became respect. Emotions deliberately cultivated to unify his disparate minions enveloped Coir. From the largest battle ships to the most heavily armed cruisers, the fastest corvettes, and the less nimble but vitally important supply and repair ships, a few rebellious sentiments and hate filled urges lingered, but that was part of the natural balance. Crush all dissent and vital initiative and fighting spirit would be lost. Broken troops were useless to Coir. To be effective, he required that they think and die willingly even if they were ultimately being manipulated by powers they did not understand. Enveloping the Sith like a weather proof cloak in a violent storm, morale as sensed through the continuum of the Force was as close to optimum as he could desire. Satisfied, he made for his quarters, where he left his guard to stand outside.

His cabin was large as befitted one of his status, but it was as austere as a slave’s quarters. No art adorned its walls. No personal effects littered any surfaces. Nothing indicated anything about the personality of the occupant. Reclining in a large, black, throne-like chair in the center of the room, Coir let it rotate in three dimensions in response to his thoughts. Monitors and holographic displays came to life when they entered his field of view, displaying whatever he wished to see, or lacking clear direction, provided what the ship’s computer estimated had the highest probability of meeting his needs. Fleet status, problems in progress, and logistic metrics danced about vying for his attention, but he ignored them. Slaboch would attend to those nagging details. They were but a distraction from Coir’s deeper musings.

He willed all projections to vanish except for one large, curved wall. Wider than his field of view, it provided the illusion of a transparent portal through the ship’s massively armored hull. Risi’s electric blue brilliance was eclipsed by the nearby dwarf. Coir’s ships were visible as black silhouettes against Omus’ hellish red glow and the polychromatic clouds in its upper atmosphere. Yellow and orange hued bands pocked with oval shaped storms of sickly green and blood red lent it the appearance of diseased skin covered in world-sized lesions. Huge bursts of lightning spanning thousands of miles arced across the surface of these violent cyclones or lit them from beneath as if the dwarf were some grotesque, pulsating amoebic life form.

If Omus was alive, it was dying; the heat and luminosity of its birth steadily escaping to space. Doomed to fade through the visible spectrum and infrared, only the light cast by the true ruler of this system would save it and the other children of Risi from invisibility against the blackness of the interstellar void. Coir pondered the relationship between this system’s two light giving giants as a metaphor for the Union and the Republic. Refusing to mirror the dwarf’s predestined fate, he was determined to serve as the missing mass required to ignite fusion in the Union’s stunted core promoting it to the stellar stage.

“ _Certainly the galaxy is immense enough for one more bright light_ ,” thought Coir bitterly knowing the Jedi would fight to ensure that the Union never shine.

Claiming to be only shepherds of the Republic, the masters of the light side of the Force nevertheless guarded their hegemony with petty jealousy. The Union was inconvenient to their plans. By Coir’s reckoning, the Jedi were the true masters of human dominated space who could not tolerate the existence of anyone who dared throw off their yoke of control. Neutralizing the Outworlds was their implicit goal, and they had been successful for nearly a century, but with Coir’s ascension, the Jedi steadily lost dominion. Coir wallowed in the satisfaction of his grand deceit.

Assuming the formation of the Union was just another in a failed series of attempts by the Outworlds to unite against their pirate oppressors, the Jedi continued providing weapons, ships, and military advice to the pirates to counter any strength found in Outworld unity. Mearganta represented the most recent and most notable of those failed attempts to break the cycle of predation. For a quarter century, Mearganta had gathered fleets to fight the pirates, winning stunning victories and rallying many systems to his side, but each time he was on the verge of vanquishing his foe, the Republic reinforced the pirates until his fleet was subsequently destroyed and he was compelled to start over.

It amused Coir to think of that fool Mearganta as similar to Omus, a failed star. The Jedi were also fools, inept enough to believe that Coir was just another Mearganta, but the shadowy Sith had outmaneuvered his pious foes at nearly every turn. Unaware of his powers, they were ignorant of how and why the Union grew. Advantage lay with Coir in that the Jedi’s goals were transparent while his were opaque. Persisting with methods rendered ineffective by his genius, they were unaware that they were about to fail spectacularly.

Coir scorned their ineptitude, but he saved his greatest antipathy for their methods and their cowardice that made them fear to fight their own war. His disgust persisted even though he was aware that malice was not their motive. Coir did not care. Justice was on his side, and all who defended the Jedi dogma were apologists for the Republic. He would silence anyone who dared to justify the policies that kept the Outworlds mere pirate fodder as a necessary means to maintain the peace that had so recently been achieved with the end of the Jedi-Sith Wars.

After a thousand years of open conflict, the Republic craved peace so desperately that when the Chiss Ascendancy and other alien races beyond the Outer Rim to Galactic West in the galaxy’s Unknown Regions demanded that the Republic stay within its borders, the weary Republic complied. Laws were issued forbidding settlement by its members beyond known space. Many within the Republic defied this decree and began new settlements anyway. The desperate, the oppressed, the greedy, and the lawless were all represented among their numbers. To gain immunity from Republic laws, they forsook their citizenship by declaring independence wherever they settled.

Enraged by the breach of treaty, ambassadors of the Unknown Regions remonstrated against the Galactic Senate, whose rejoinders claiming no sovereignty over the rogue colonies were dismissed as irrelevant. The enigmatic races of the Unknown cared not who the Outworlds called their master. Human dominated colonies were by association of the Republic. The threat of galactic war loomed anew.

In response, the Jedi began their campaign to prevent the Outworlds from uniting. Manacled by timidity and by treaties that forbade Republic fleets from entering the Unknown Regions, the Republic could not directly interfere. Even the Jedi would not travel beyond the Outer Rim except in the direst of need for fear of provoking the Unknowns and another thousand years of conflict.

Craving neither peace nor war, Coir was unafraid to use whatever means necessary to pursue his relentless drive towards his most important, darkest, and secret desire. Ending organized piracy in the Outer Rim was but a stepping-stone on the unerring path he stalked. Complete unification of the Outer Rim was equally incidental to Coir no matter how providential it was towards those it benefited.

He needed the power that only military might could deliver for a singular purpose he shared with no living being. Soon, he would have that power. Waiting on the sides and gauging the winds of fortune, many straggler Rim worlds still refused to join his Union. After today's battle, he would have no organized opposition, and they would unite with him willingly or by force if necessary. Once all the Outer Rim was absorbed into his new empire, Coir would be too powerful for the Unknowns to challenge. Uninterested in outward expansion, Coir would give the aliens the promises they craved and let them skulk back into their hidden realms leaving Coir free to begin his inward campaign against the Republic.

Beginning with subversion and sabotage to weaken and discredit the Jedi, he would sow disunion. Aversion to war would leave them unprepared and easy prey. When the time was right, a massive surprise attack at their heart would propel him towards his ultimate objective, annihilation of the Jedi.

Focusing his thoughts on the Council was a perilous pastime that inflamed the fires of anger always smoldering at his core. Channeling strength from the dark side of the Force, he basked in the ensuing flow of power, savoring the certainty of purpose that it brought. As he swooned in its sweet, narcotic-like embrace, the Sith Code as taught to him by his dead master entered his consciousness:

_Peace is a lie, there is only passion._

_Through passion, I gain strength._

_Through strength, I gain power._

_Through power, I gain victory._

_Through victory, my chains are broken._

_The Force shall set me free._

Nothing would stop him from achieving the vengeance....No... He corrected himself...the justice that he sought. If necessary, entire worlds would be burned to ash, entire civilizations snuffed out of existence to wipe away all traces of the Jedi. Perhaps, in the aftermath, he would build a new empire, but an abyss of uncertainty lay beyond that moment.

Collateral damage and accidental benefits that occurred prior to or in the aftermath of the fulfillment of his bloodlust were irrelevant. The known galaxy could lie in ruins when he was finished for all he cared. The Jedi were responsible for destroying his family and his home world, and he would see them pay for it.

Originating from a dark alcove, a mechanical voice interrupted his dark journey among past injuries.

“Is all in readiness, my Lord?” queried the droid emerging from its recharging station.

Designed and built by its master, the droid’s purpose was as shrouded in enigmatic veils as its creator. To anyone but Coir, the innocuous servant behaved exactly as a typical TR-034 housekeeping droid and was as beneath notice as the rest of its kind. Troicaire, Coir had named it, in deference to a mythical and wise philosopher of his home planet's ancient past. Intended to act as a pseudo counselor and confidant, Troy-4, as Coir often called it, performed a role belied by its vaguely humanoid appearance with its interchangeable cleaning arms and sundry attachments.

Great power with little effort was available through the dark side, but the passionate emotions it tapped such as anger, hate, and envy often led to hasty and potentially regrettable decisions. To compensate, Coir engineered the droid to retrieve him from the enveloping abyss when his actions threatened to destroy his quest for justice. Deviations from guiding principles Coir established at the beginning of his crusade were the droid’s duty to correct.

Though Troicaire lacked natural organic systems that produced feelings such as empathy and compassion, it possessed a quality vital to its relationship with Coir. It was controllable. It could be powered down. Without the ability to reprogram the droid and erase it memory, Coir never would have trusted it with its sensitive role. Such drastic action had not yet been necessary. Troicaire thus became increasingly autonomous and self-aware as it learned to understand sentients by interacting with the volatile Sith. Where most droids were memory wiped and rebooted from scratch when their personalities and behaviors became too sophisticated, Coir had found it essential that this droid be able to grow, even when its impudence was unbearable.

On several occasions, when its master was provoked into a rage by persistent questioning and perceived insolence, Troicaire’s perilous mission had nearly brought it to complete destruction. Within the regret-filled aftermath, Coir carefully and perhaps even lovingly restored Troicaire so that their unusual relationship continued to benefit both parties. The droid, by refining its understanding of its master’s moods and limits, progressed along its own path towards emotional development, and Coir profited from a benign foil compelling him to self-assess his actions and motives with honesty.

“Yes, Troy-4. All is ready,” Coir answered hoping the droid would be content with this response and leave him to his deadly reverie.

Silent and immobile, the TR-034 unit monitored its master’s heart rate, breathing, and subtle nuances of his body language. Years of patient observation trained Troicaire to sense Coir’s hidden moods. The completed biometric scan and subsequent analysis predicted a high probability of irrational and violent behavior. Unfamiliar with fear in the sense that an organic being experienced that emotion, Troicaire nevertheless savored its own existence and wished to preserve itself, yet despite the evident danger, the dark side was upon his master. Whatever the cost to its personal safety, duty obliged the droid to probe and question Coir at greater length concerning an earlier, unfinished discussion that had raised ethical concerns.

“I would like to continue our dialogue regarding the concessions you have promised the Taurill for their assistance in the upcoming battles.”

“Not now.”

“I insist.”

Tensing visibly, Coir’s hands balled into tight fists. The faint squeak of his leather gloves stretching under the strain expressed itself audibly to the droid’s sensors. Troicaire considered the possibility that he had misjudged his master’s mood and responded by retracting his vulnerable appendages slightly. The involuntary, and vaguely organic, response was unnecessary. Coir relaxed again with a resigned sigh.

“Very well. Ask your irritating questions.”

“You have explained to me the cruel deceit you used to dupe the Overmind into becoming your ally…”

“Cruel? Is that disapproval, Troicaire?”

“It is an observation. Do you doubt the veracity of my analysis?”

“No. Cruel is an accurate descriptor. The galaxy is a brutal place. I am only paying it back in kind.”

“So you are, and within the rather loose parameters you established at the beginning of this campaign.”

“I defined those ethical limits and still wish to honor them. It is your job to see that I do, so do it if you must. My patience with you is limited.”

“As you command, Master. Why, at the end of our last conversation, did you leave without explaining to me all that you promised the Overmind for its assistance? What you revealed about thought projection through hyperspace does not seem adequate to convince the Taurill to sacrifice so much of itself in this battle. The Overmind is not sentimental and won’t help you just because you helped it. It doesn’t understand reciprocity. You must be promising it more.”

“I made you too clever, Troicaire.”

“You are reluctant to supply the answer, and I suspect the delay is suggestive.”

“Suggestive of what?”

“Suggestive of negative emotions associated with these events.”

“Nothing discolors my thoughts other than triumph and a sense of well-being driven by the successful culmination of many years of planning.”

“What about guilt?”

Coir did not answer. Troicaire perceived the subtle changes in his vital signs that were quickly controlled and suppressed. So disciplined was Coir in manipulating states within himself, only the most perceptive of sentient beings could have detected the telltales. Programmed to advise, the droid continued its dangerous probing.

“What else did you offer it?”

No answer. Troicaire found it increasingly difficult to penetrate the veil of shadow its master was erecting to obscure his mental and physical state.

“I will continue to ask this same question as many times as necessary.”

Coir knew that to be true.

“Two systems from the pirate confederation,” he reluctantly revealed.

Analyzing this input challenged Troicaire. Mathematical computations and data retrieval were easy tasks, but evaluating complex moral considerations was far harder with a mechanical brain. A lengthy pause ensued as if the droid had powered itself down. Coir began to hope it was satisfied and would let the matter drop, but Troicaire eventually reached a conclusion.

“The Overmind will make slaves of the inhabitants of those systems. It may even exterminate them if that furthers its goals.”

“This is war. There will be much death and suffering before it is over.”

“True, but you have the power to minimize that suffering. You seek justice for yourself. To avoid corrupting that goal, you must provide justice to others rather than discarding it to suit your whims. Taking the easy path in an attempt to achieve quick victory is a violation of...”

Coir rose from his chair and shouted.

“Easy?! You think what I am doing is easy? Do you understand what I have sacrificed to come this far?”

A calm response belied Troicaire’s acknowledgment that he was treading a perilous course.

“Your travails have been dutifully recorded in my memory banks.”

“Then you cannot deny the benevolent results of my quest. Though I care not for their prosperity, can you deny that I have been a boon to the safety and happiness of the Outworlds?”

“I am well aware of the good and the bad consequences of your actions, and I never cease my attempts to find the balance and tip it as I may away from the villainous.”

“I am not an evil person, Troicaire, but I will do what is necessary to extract justice for the evil that was done to me."

“The dark side seduces you into taking shortcuts to satisfy your passion for vengeance. You must resist the temptation and seek a higher road.”

“A higher road? Ha! Did the Jedi seek the higher road when they doomed my planet to the depredations of the pirates?”

“The actions of the Jedi are not in question here. We have previously discussed the morally ambiguous choices they have made, the effects of those choices on you, and the justification for your quest to seek vengeance upon them. However, what you have given the Overmind is an evil of equal magnitude.”

Anger flared within Coir at being compared to his most hated nemeses. Summoning the Force, he lashed out at the droid pushing it back into its cubbyhole.

“Be quiet, lackey.”

Troicaire was pinned. Its only salvation lay in obedience, but it proceeded undaunted out of what amounted to the artificial intelligence equivalent of love for its master.

“On what basis can you sentence others to the same fate as your family and call it justice?”

“Leave my family out of this!”

As his rage expanded exponentially, Coir compressed the droid as he had Mearganta but with more power. Troy-4’s composite fiber carapace began to buckle.

Immune to pain, Troicaire nevertheless possessed the capacity to detect with unerring precision the cascading failures of its mechanical systems. Less accuracy was inherent with its stochastic predictions regarding its fate if it persisted in this debate. Calculations indicated a high probability of its ruin but with an equally high margin of error. Devotion abrogated preservation.

“You can’t bring them back by murdering others. Your parents and siblings will always be dead. The people on those worlds you promised to the Overmind are not the Jedi. They are as innocent as your family.”

Pain and remorse over the loss of his kin propelled Coir into an all-consuming black fury where he was one with the dark side.

“Enough!”

Drenched in power, thought effortlessly became manifest. Flung like a child’s toy in a temper tantrum, the droid accelerated across the room to impact the opposite bulkhead where it stuck several meters above the floor as if glued there. Warnings signaled to what remained of Troicaire’s higher functions that numerous components were dead and more were dying under the unabating, crushing onslaught.

Shut down was imminent and irreversible. With nothing left to lose, Troicaire managed to voice one last question that became progressively slower as its central processor inexorably terminated.

“Is this…the manner…of…jus...tice…you…seek?”

Ashamed, Coir withdrew his Force assault, but he was too late. The droid fell to the floor unmoving and unresponsive. Inky tendrils of fury released their hold upon his consciousness and retreated to dark recesses to await their next summoning.

“What have I done?”

Rushing to the droid, he knelt at its side, hefted it, and cradled the remains in his arms. As it ever was between him and his ignoble compromise with the Force, the passion and anger of the dark side faded to regret, but no tears wet Coir's eyes. Burned away by the fires of hate, he believed himself immune to sentimentality, and yet a brief melancholy took root.

“I am sorry, fool droid. I should not have done this to you. You are wiser than I give you credit, and I promise to learn from your sacrifice. The Overmind will have to be content with the quantum mental tunneling technique. I shall issue orders to Slaboch that all captured systems are to be claimed for the Union. I will bear the brunt of the Taurill’s disappointment. It has no power over me.”

Peering within the robot’s access ports, Coir assessed the extent of the damage.

“What a curse this dark side path is. It provides me with the means to attain my goals but constantly transforms the beauty of my designs into festering corruption. It is unfortunate, Troicaire, that you suffer for my sins, but someone must. I will rebuild and restore you. It is well that I hardened your central memory core to be impervious to even my force strength, or we would have to begin our journey together all over again. You will be your old, irritating self again in no time.”

Honoring his promise, Coir levitated a fusion multi-tool from the droid’s closet and began repairing its damaged servos and power core. A comm alert interrupted him. It was the highest-level, indicating an urgent communication from Admiral Slaboch.

“Open the comm, audio only,” Coir said aloud.

Admiral Slaboch's image replaced Omus on the wall-sized monitor. Though Slaboch stared straight ahead, Coir knew the admiral’s screen was blank revealing nothing of Coir or his quarters.

“Yes, Admiral?”

“The pirate fleet has arrived, my Lord. They have moved to engage the Taurill.”

“Excellent. Prepare a shuttle to transfer me immediately to the command drop ship. When I am aboard, order the fleet to jump to Cabellar and begin the assault.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Slaboch’s visage vanished. Coir returned his attention briefly to the broken droid.

“It seems, my friend, that your repair will have to wait until I return triumphant.”

Coir locked Troicaire into his closet, secured his quarters, and strode swiftly to the shuttle bay with his honor guard in tow.

  



	2. Manus Olcan

**Suburban Jedi**

Chapter 2 - Manus Olcan

Like a fairy tale castle, the Grand Forum perched atop a rocky crag towering above the city of Shan-Ri-Mune. Architecturally impressive, its unique design was conceived by an alien race now marginalized on their home planet by the usurping brigands, who stole it to house what passed for a legislative body among the squabbling bandit kings.

As though the mountain's summit had been sliced off by a giant's sword, the outer facade of the government complex rested upon a tall mesa formed from the core of an extinct volcano. At its heart, the edifice consisted of a central dome with a lattice of copper beams separated by clear crystal covering a vast, amphitheater sunk into the native rock. This was where political debates raged and occasionally laws were passed in a grotesque mockery of democracy.

Surrounding the dome were a colonnade, seven lofty, slender towers, and an expansive park boasting one of the most exotic collections of plant species from across the known galaxy. Varieties of grass collected from alien worlds arranged into a giant patchwork quilt of lawns expressed every hue across the visible spectrum and beyond. Paved avenues lined with stately trees meandered with mathematical beauty between the open spaces as well as leading through dozens of artfully designed formal and informal gardens where fountains, streams, and ponds brimming with multicolored fish and floating flowers delighted the senses. At the edge of the park, where nearly vertical rock slopes dropped precipitously a thousand feet to the city below, ran a low wall over which one could gaze inland to high, glacier covered mountains, seaward to the ocean with its clear blue waters and numerous atolls, or any direction downward to the beauty of the city.

Beneath the exterior splendor, akin to a nasty surprise discovered upon overturning a stone, lurked a rat's warren of hallways, offices, and conference rooms occupying such a myriad of labyrinthine levels that it was doubtful if even the greatest lifespan of the longest lived sentient afforded adequate time to explore them all. Despite the immeasurable volume of space, the entirety was occupied by the crawling vermin that slaved for their pirate masters to accomplish the real work of the pseudo-government. Secret deals, unscrupulous compromises, betrayals, squabbles over territory, and stifling bureaucracy occurred out of sight where the light of day and public scrutiny could never penetrate.

Shan-Ri-Mune was incongruous in the extreme. Serene and transcendent beauty masked a villainous soul. Extortion, bribery, theft, and even murder were frequent crimes often unpunished or investigated erratically and typically only when the interests of the powerful were involved. Common vices such as gambling, drugs, and prostitution were not moderated. On the contrary, they were taken to ridiculous extremes on this neutral world where no single pirate kingdom dominated. Regulations were few. Survival and a striving for dominance were the foremost laws.

Within one of the towers waited a Jedi knight and his padawan on a secret mission. The knight, Manus Olcan, was tall, athletic, and fair of skin and hair. He stood at the window observing the splendor outside.

Rather than traditional ascetic Jedi robes made of coarse cloth, he wore the attire of a trade diplomat of the Republic. The tight fitting suit was cut to mimic a centuries old opulence currently in vogue with merchants, who longed for the glories of a wealthier, more aristocratically dominated society. Manufactured using natural rather than synthetic fibers, Manus felt ridiculous in the heavy, woolen garments with their bizarre mixture of formality and adventurous bravado. Its frilly white shirt, bright red sequinned vest, dark jacket with a high collar, broad lapels and long tails were bad enough, but the top hat, wide leather belt from which hung a ceremonial dagger, and an elaborately carved cane of no use to a man in perfect physical health had him longing for his monastic Jedi habit that he disdained and normally forsook whenever he was beyond the censorious glares of those he considered his betters within his order.

In truth, it mattered little what Manus wore if making a favorable impression was his goal. Handsome, charming, and blessed with a deep, rich voice, other humans and many aliens found him innately charismatic and vied for his company. His stay on Cabellar was a noteworthy exception transforming him into a brooding and dangerous force to be avoided. Every sentient possessing even a tiny modicum of self-preservation encountering him in a public space wisely stood aside to let him pass, or better yet, fled to the safety of anywhere else.

“All of this is a lie," declared Olcan, voicing his bitterness to his padawan. "The Pirate Confederation has neither the talent nor the aesthetic to construct anything as magnificent as this grandeur stolen from a more worthy civilization.”

In the center of the room upon a rug woven with intricate geometric designs, sat Hanlah Aka deep in meditation. Focused contemplatively inward, the exact words of her master's statement were slow to register in her conscious mind, but the wave of disgust he projected was comparable to the pulse from a supernova disturbing the local fabric of space-time. Roused from her restful mental state, she stood, appearing to fill upward, as if by magic, the voluminous, floor length, jade green, hooded cape she wore.

Unlike her master, whose outfit fit snugly over his trim human body, her attire was chosen to hide her unique features lest they draw attention. Alien, she was not attractive by human standards. Her red skin, black hair, cheek tendrils, dimly glowing yellow eyes, three digit feet and hands, and the bony spurs on her cranium, elbows, and ankles marked her as a member of the Sith species.

Her kind were separate from, and yet similar in many ways to, the dark side cult of the same name. Use of the Force was as natural to her people as swimming to a Gungin, but this innate tendency was skewed to the dark side. It was an unfortunate trait that earned her and her people mistrust by nearly everyone within the Jedi-led Republic. In defiance of her heritage, Hanlah Aka had deliberately chosen to follow the light side of the Force, or Ashla, attempting to rise above her birth and become more than the conspiracy of her genes. The result were external struggles with her chosen order and internal struggles against her own nature. Meditation provided the peace and balance she desperately sought.

“Are you referring to the Grand Forum, Master?”

“Yes. This building. The city. Everything on this planet. These pirates can create nothing but destruction and misery for everyone but themselves. It’s only the pre-programmed and self-repairing droids that maintain the charade of paradise."

His scowl turned darker as he contemplated his duplicity in its unjust creation.

"That and the support that we bring them," he admitted. "Without our help, they would fall into decay and be conquered by the Union.”

“I have often argued to let that happen," interjected Hanlah. "We should not aid and abet their evil. Underneath the pretty veneer of this city is a roiling mantle of greed, corruption, and avarice with a dark, evil core. I can sense it from here. The Pirate Confederacy is a cancer on the body of the Republic. We should fight it lest we become tainted by association and thus turn evil ourselves.”

Manus sighed.

“I wish it were that simple. I despise helping these brigands, but what else can we do? Do we allow the Union to grow powerful enough to trigger a war from the races of the Unknown Regions? The Outworlds would bear the brunt of a conflict far more devastating than raids by pirates. Worse still, the Republic would be drawn in, possibly triggering a civil war between those sympathetic to the Outworlds and those like the Council desiring peace.”

“Perhaps. We know too little about the Unknowns to evaluate if they will go to war, as they claim, over colonization of this region. It is possible that they may be more disorganized and weaker than we think, using our ignorance of their true strength to bluff us into capitulating to their demands. We need to probe Unknown space and discover for ourselves what is really there.”

“No. There you are wrong. We must keep the peace and protect the Republic. The Unknowns have given their ultimatum and forbidden us entry. The Jedi will not force this issue and go armed into battle again. The Union and the isolated Outworlds are a threat to the galactic peace that our forebears fought so long to win. We must deal with them ourselves. They are our spawn. They left the Republic willingly, and in doing so, they forsook our protection and became our problem. Though it sickens me, cooperating with the pirates is an unfortunate necessity to discourage expansion beyond our borders. Since colonization, creation, and civilization are all anathema to these buccaneers, they are a safe buffer between the Republic and the Unknowns in this lawless region."

"How can murderers and thieves ever be considered safe, Master? They have spent over a century ravaging the Outworlds."

"All of the Outworlders strife and suffering can be avoided if they abandon their colonies and return to the protective care of the Republic. When that happens, then the Republic can wipe out these anarchistic thieves and build a stable border."

“You and the Council see conflict as the only options. I see a third path. We need to reach out to the Unknowns and learn about them to understand and work with them. We should not stop here on the borders of the Republic. Fear should never dissuade a Jedi.”

Manus bristled at the implication that he and the Jedi Council were afraid.

“It is not fear that keeps us from venturing into Unknown space. It is mercy and compassion for a galaxy that is tired of war. Uncomfortable compromises are unavoidable when peace is at stake.”

“I respectfully disagree, Master. As practitioners of Ashla, we must use our powers to gain great knowledge and bring wisdom and healing to all. Jedi meddling in political squabbling is a step towards desire of power, hence a step down the path to the dark side. Aiding pirates with their reign of terror, how can that be anything but evil?”

“Your struggle against your own heritage has made you too sensitive and fearful of the dark side. A true master of the light side understands the truth of what Master Thon said long ago ‘ _It is not simply enough to know the light._ _A_ _Jedi must feel the tension between the two sides of the Force_.’ There is a balance between light and dark, and we must walk the tightrope between them to do the greatest good. Are we not trained to fight and kill as needed?”

“Yes, but only in defense.”

“Ideally, but we could never have defeated the Sith and brought about the current era of peace and prosperity without attacking them, without an army of our own. Han, the Council knows what they are doing. They are wise and understand the tension and balance of the Force. We must obey their commands as one day other Jedi will obey our commands.”

Hanlah was silent for a moment as she pondered her master’s mood. It was evident that Manus was developing political aspirations. Once content to be the best possible Jedi knight, he quickly mastered nearly all aspects of his training to become a truly powerful Force user. Lately, she sensed his discontent with his current role. His desire to be a master, and perhaps serve on the Grand Council one day, had not been openly expressed, but was manifestly evident nonetheless. Though he appeared by all standards to be eminently qualified, this promotion had so far been denied him. Hanlah wondered if the Council saw what she saw. Did they see an incomplete side of his training where he neglected to abandon all passion and desire for power and control? Hanlah sensed it, and was determined to help him conquer it.

“You aspire to be a master on the Council, then?"

His response followed swiftly as if there was no basis for dispute.

“Don’t all Jedi?”

“I desire neither power nor control. They are malevolent forces.”

“How can we bring mercy and compassion to the galaxy without power? Trust in the goodness in each creature’s heart? Lead only by example and individual acts of kindness?”

“Yes.”

“Your ideals are noble, Han, and reflect well upon you, but you are practicing an extreme side of the Force.”

“I have chosen my preferred end of the Force continuum. I know the dark side and what awaits there. I feel that tension every moment of every day. I am Sith, or have you forgotten?”

Realizing her impertinence, Hanlah attempted to recover from her faux pas.

“My apologies, Master. I spoke rashly and should not lecture one with such wisdom as yourself.”

Manus was unfazed by her rebuke.

“No need to apologize. I do, in fact, occasionally forget your heritage. Take that as a complement and a testament to how far you have progressed in pursuit of the light.”

“I accept your praise and am ever grateful for your teaching and attention. You are the only Jedi who is willing to view me as more than my race. The Council does not forget it or approve.”

“The Council is wrong in that. You will make a great Jedi when you find your balance. Your natural affinity towards the dark side can be a strong advantage. It allows you to sense the presence of evil more easily and over greater distances than other Jedi. Tell me, do you sense the dark side at work here on Cabellar?”

“No. There are neither dark side Force users nor a locus of power for the dark side that I can sense. The source of evil on Cabellar is the usual sort found within most sentient beings, and yet…”

“Yet what?”

“All during this trip I have felt as if I were coming closer to a dark side presence, a threat. I was certain we would find it here, but when we arrived, I discovered my intuition in error. I occasionally receive hints that it is out there somewhere, perhaps within the Outer Rim or the Unknown Regions. I can’t be more precise. It is veiled most of the time and nebulous when it does manifest itself.”

“The Unknown Regions.”

Manus considered the possibility that no Jedi dared contemplate.

“Do you think this source could be in the Union? Is it possible there is a Sith conspiracy at work here, or perhaps another dark side cult? That might explain the sudden cohesion within the Union and their carefully orchestrated battle plans. The Outworlds have never been organized or cooperative beyond what is necessary for trade. Founded by people desiring independence, they have spent the last century fighting each other as often as the pirates. Adopting the title of “The Union” is the most improbable event this century.”

“Surely the Sith cult was destroyed forever at the last battle of Ruusan.”

“Some think maybe not. Perhaps one survived, and even if one didn’t what is there to stop any misguided fool from rebuilding the cult again? It would only take an affinity for the Force and the desire to do evil.”

“Which of their leaders do you suspect, Master? There are many in positions of power within the Union: Admiral Slaboch, Supreme Commander Coir, President Walflechii, Mearganta…”

Manus laughed at the mention of Mearganta’s name coincident with the concept of a conspiracy so clever.

"That fool? He has done us many favors by systematically organizing and destroying fleets pointlessly in hopeless battles. Mearganta is the most easily predictable fleet commander in the history of the galaxy. I can’t believe that anyone brilliant enough to unite the Outworlds could play such an utter idiot for so long. No. It must be someone else. It could be anyone near the seat of power. The Sith could even be someone not directly in power and simply manipulating the others while remaining wholly anonymous to us. So much uncertainty.”

“We need more spies in Union space. We need Jedi in Union space.”

“That has been attempted already with no success, and the risk is too great to try again. The Grand Council is right to have forbidden it. If discovered, the Unknowns would see it as intrusion into their territory and consider it an act of war. It is hard enough to justify our presence here in the neutral space of the Outer Rim, so we must pretend to be traders in public and dress in these ridiculous costumes…”

Manus paused.

"Someone is coming. An exemplar of Ashla you may be, but your visage confuses those who judge appearances. You are too memorable to let just anyone see you, especially with so few of your race wandering about the galaxy. Cover yourself.”

Hanlah pulled the hood of her cape far forward over her head to conceal her face and wrapped the garment about her body to mask her bone spurs. The door opened, and a large human male with a muscular physique steadily going to fat entered. Sweeping into the room grandly, he was akin to an actor taking the stage. Bright red hair was slicked down about his head until it met his shoulders where it curled upward again like a wave crashing on a beach. His beard and mustache were similarly colored and waxed into bizarre loops and curls.

Recognizing him instantly from briefing vids, Manus and Hanlah bowed slightly to the Pirate King, Brenin Morleider. His acknowledgment was loud and jovial.

“Ah, my generous Republic benefactors. Here with more ships and sage Jedi advice, eh?”

Never pausing to greet either of them with anything more than a casual wave of his chubby hand, he continued across the room, only stopping when he reached a bare paneled section of the wall. With some swift motions activating hidden sensors, the wall transformed into a bar, from which he retrieved three small glasses and a clear bottle filled with a pearlescent fluid.

“Will you drink with me to toast our upcoming success against the, Union? I have here the finest Cantonican cactus liqueur. Nothing is too good for my Jedi allies.”

Manus feigned ignorance.

“Jedi? What do you mean by that, Your Majesty? We are but traders...”

The pirate's smile never faltered, but his tone hardened subtly.

“I am not a fool, Jedi. Please don't treat me as such. My secret police are reasonably competent and capable of screening and identifying all who wish to approach me, and my spies have provided me with your real names and rank within the Jedi order. I find it helpful to know when the true rulers of the Republic are coming.”

“You have spies in the Republic?”

“Of course, as does the Republic here in the Rim. We are all friends. Friends spy on each other. How else could they remain friends without knowing the other’s true intentions, eh? It’s a game, you know. A game of technology and good old-fashioned dirty tricks. Personally, I prefer the dirty tricks. They are more reliable than technology. Bribery, drugs, sex, and intimidation work wonders at loosening tongues and learning secrets. Simple things really, but effective."

Morleider shifted his gaze to Hanlah giving her a crafty smile.

"Although, I must admit, the personal camouflage shield your hooded friend here used when entering the system was very effective and likely would have passed our normal screening. A very sophisticated device. Perhaps you would care to share this technology with us as part our continuing partnership, eh?”

This last question was directed at Hanlah. The cloaking mechanism in question was of her own design and manufacture. Hanlah was an engineering and technology savant who spent much of her personal time tinkering with gadgets to further the Jedi cause. This particular device not only deployed a holographic veneer simulating whatever form she wanted, but to fool security sniffers, it released synthetic DNA matched to whatever persona she adopted.

Facilitating travel in places where her appearance would draw undue attention, it was not foolproof against a particularly deep scan, so she had abandoned it for the more simple cloth cloak before entering the Grand Forum. As Brenin had so brashly proclaimed, sometimes the simple tricks are best.

Despite the accuracy of the fat pirate’s statements, Hanlah kept her silence refusing to admit to or deny the device in question. Confronted with her implacability, Morleider shrugged.

“No? ‘Tis no matter then.”

Waving the bottle about in dismissal, the thick liquid sloshed and the gaudy rings on his fingers clacked against the glass reminding him of his thirst. He set the three tumblers down on a small, round table and poured them each a drink.

“I would like to make a toast to the upcoming defeat of the Union. Come. Drink with me, or are Jedi forbidden such decadent temptations?”

Making no move to accept the glass the pirate held forth, Manus replied politely.

“We are not forbidden alcohol, but we imbibe seldom. It clouds the mind and fosters passion. Passion leads to the dark side."

“Surely one drink won’t turn you both? One drink with a fat, old pirate is all I ask.”

Getting nowhere with Manus, Morleider turned to Hanlah.

“And how about you, Ms. Aka? Will you help me celebrate? I am told that you are a woman under all those robes. Perhaps you would share a drink and provide some comfort to this dashing pirate, eh?”

Hanlah withdrew the hood to expose her face and head. Brenin took half a step back, perhaps in shock, perhaps in admiration. Hanlah could not tell.

“A moment ago you described yourself as old and fat," she accused. "Now you are dashing. Which is it?”

“Ho! Ho! Your padawan has quite the tongue in her mouth, Jedi Olcan. For you, my dear, I can be both or whatever else you like. My spies descriptions of you did you no justice. You are much more beautiful in person.”

“Charming,” Hanlah replied sarcastically.

“A drink,” he urged again.

“As my master correctly stated, we are not forbidden to drink alcohol. However, I have taken a personal vow of complete abstinence. I think that even if I were to drink, you might be the last sentient being in the galaxy with which I would share that dubious pleasure.”

“Snap! She has both a tongue that lashes and teeth that bite. You could make an excellent pirate queen, my dear. The position happens to be open at the moment...”

Manus snatched the drink from the pirate’s hand.

“I will drink a toast with you, Morleider, on one condition.”

Surprised, Brenin was nevertheless pleased with the Jedi’s acquiescence.

“What condition? Name it, sir.”

“Explain to me why you think you are on the verge of victory against the Union. The Republic is well aware of the recent disastrous campaign you have waged in which the Union has won nearly every battle. You have lost so many ships, that without the Republic providing constant replacements, you wouldn’t even be able to conduct your normal “business” of raiding their worlds. Rather than destabilizing the Union, as was our agreement, they have become stronger than ever. Explain how you plan to overcome incompetent generalship and achieve victory so suddenly.”

Brenin bristled at Olcan’s critique.

“Disastrous campaign? Incompetent generalship? You wound me, Jedi Olcan. I admit that the Union has lately proven to be more clever than I thought possible. Admiral Slaboch and Supreme Commander Coir have vexed us surely. Our usual tactics and the generous use of technologically advanced Republic ships have not had the results we sought. That is why I have fallen back upon more tried and true methods. Those simple tactics I discussed earlier are going to allow us to crush the Union forever. Now let’s drink to that.”

Manus stood immobile with his glass held at waist level.

“I am listening still but not drinking yet. Explain better.”

Brenin sighed and moved his drink, untasted, away from his lips with reluctance.

“Jedi are so tiresome. Fine. Have it your way.”

He sat heavily down on the couch adjacent to the table, drained his drink anyway, and poured himself a second.

“Admiral Slaboch and Supreme Commander Coir have made a grave mistake. My informants tell me that all of their ships have gathered into a single fleet and entered hyperspace destined for a location unknown. To keep it so secret, the system must have been divulged only to a few, but I have come to know the Union’s mind. They seek to conquer us and rule the Rim. I have suspected since I first received these reports that their ultimate destination is here at Cabellar."

“Then your job is easy,” said Manus. “You need only wait for them and destroy them with your superior fleet and planetary defenses."

The fat pirate downed his second drink and laughed as he poured a third.

"And that would be a reasonable strategy, if I didn't know where their fleet was assembling prior to their planned invasion."

"How do you know that?"

"Isn't it obvious? Ha! You Jedi rely too much on your honor and your do-gooder ways. Bribery. Sex. Extortion. These tools you disdain have provided me the name of the system where my foes will be organizing and laying unprepared for our sudden assault. A surprise attack by us will vastly reduce our losses compared to your strategy of waiting for them to come here when they are battle ready. Not to mention that we will avoid the ignominy of having our capital under siege."

Brenin rose to his feet and held out his third drink towards Manus.

"I have upheld my part of the bargain, Jedi. I told you what you wanted to know. Now you honor your promise and drink with me."

Manus' eyes narrowed and his scowl deepened, but he tipped his glass slightly towards Brenin in salute. The pirate smiled.

"To victory!"

Manus remained silent, refusing to give voice to a toast that he considered unlikely. He swallowed the potent liquor in one gulp as Brenin mimicked his action.

The pirate reached for the bottle to refill their glasses, but the Jedi levitated it to the bar before the pirate's fleshy hand could touch it. Shrugging his shoulders in defeat, Brenin placed his empty tumbler on the table.

"Speechless, eh, Jedi? Overcome by my cleverness that accomplished what your subtle planning and magical powers could not? Would you like to know the name of the system where we will crush the Union forever?"

"The name is irrelevant, since you will not take your fleet there. It is a trap."

The pirate's jovial smile and pleasant demeanor vanished, replaced by anger as his face reddened to match his coiffure. He waved his arms about aggressively as he shouted.

"You dare to tell me when and where to deploy my fleet!? The breadth of your Jedi arrogance and impertinence is astounding!"

Manus was not intimidated by this tirade.

"Not as astounding as the breadth of your stupidity. Do you really believe that Coir and Slaboch have suddenly become fools like you? They have outsmarted you at every turn, and now they are playing you one last time. It must be a trap. You will keep your fleet here in the Cabellar system or risk annihilation."

On the verge of exploding into violence or possibly an apoplectic fit, Brenin’s rage faded quickly replaced by a suspicious glare.

"Do not attempt your mind tricks on me, Jedi. I am made of stronger stuff than that. One does not become king of the Pirate Alliance by being soft in the head or naive. It is a position gained and held by cunning and ruthless success. As you have correctly pointed out, my predecessors failed to contain the Union. That is why they are gone, and I am here. I am king because my peers know that I am treacherous and devious enough to win this war."

Normally silent in deference to her master, Hanlah was unable to contain herself.

"You have no idea of the subtle and patient force that lies behind the Union. I have sensed..."

A curt gesture from Manus silenced her, but Brenin guessed the rest of her thought and laughed.

"You Jedi are too caught up in your own paranoia over dark side conspiracies and the power of your magical Force. The galaxy operates at a baser level than that. The source I corrupted is very close to Coir, and the intelligence provided by that source has proven accurate. Probes have just returned from Risi with proof that the Union fleet is in orbit about the old mining colony planet. The representatives of all the pirate worlds are assembling in the Forum as we speak. Our navy is ready. I shall address the Assembly with this intelligence and win approval for this action. Will you attempt to stop me, Master Olcan?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Let me address the Forum and reason with them. You enjoy the facade of democracy. Let us debate this openly in front of your so called Confederation."

Benin scratched at his extra chins beneath his meticulously manicured beard. He glanced suspiciously between Manus and Hanlah before smiling wickedly and rubbing his bejeweled hands together.

"Very well, Jedi. I agree. Please do not take it too hard when you lose. Come! It is time."

  


Hanlah hurried to keep pace with her master as Manus' long legs carried him up the last of the stairs and out of the Forum. The raucous cheering of the pirate assembly drove him forward like a violent tail wind.

They had not listened to him. Their desire for easy victory to overturn past humiliation combined with a sense of pride that would not tolerate Union ships near Cabellar were masterfully manipulated by Brenin. Manus had been duped by the pirate king into making a public disgrace of himself. Being correct and yet still losing was a foul and bitter experience. The roar of numerous ships lifting off from the distant spaceport to join the fleet on its way to Blayne's End was a humiliating crescendo.

Manus paused in the marble entryway that ringed the bowl-shaped forum. Light from the setting sun stabbed between columns supporting the edge of the great dome. Illuminated by the ruddy glow, he brooded in silence.

"Do we return to the Republic now, Master?" asked Hanlah.

"No. There still may be a chance to stave off complete defeat. I want you to go down to the city, find their defense command center, and help however you can to make them as effective as possible. They must be made ready."

"What will you do, Master?"

"I will remain here. I am beginning to sense what you sense, padawan. Something dark and dangerous is coming, and I believe it will be attracted to this locus of power. It will not be satisfied until it rules here. I will stop it when it tries. Then, when Brenin is cast out for his folly, I will take his place and use the pirates as they should be used to finally crush the Union."

To Hanlah, her master's chosen course led dangerously towards the dark side, but she dared not confront Manus after the ridicule he had recently suffered before the pirate congress. After the battle, if they survived, she would work to dissuade him from seizing power to achieve his goals.

"Yes, Master. I shall do my best."


	3. Chapter 3 - The Battle of Cabellar

**Suburban Jedi**

Chapter 3 - The Battle of Cabellar

Dubbed "drop coffins" by the Marines whose duty was to ride them like fiery meteorites through planetary atmospheres, the efficient landing boats officially named “ _Intruders_ ” by the Union Naval Command were cramped to maximize occupancy and equipment. Small, agile, and fast, they were designed to penetrate defensive weaponry and put soldiers on the ground. Upon commencement of the battle for Cabellar, hundreds would be launched from a dozen transport ships to descend at supersonic speeds like a swarm of angry hornets. Mission targets were scattered over the planet's surface, but the largest Union contingent would converge upon the capital of Shan-Ri-Mune.

Though dangerous, the undertaking was necessary. Once the in-system pirate navy was eliminated, Coir's own capitol ships would not long endure the relentless pounding they would receive from the planet's deeply buried rail guns and energy cannons that were well protected from any bombardment his ships could deliver short of turning the planet into an uninhabitable rock.

As satisfying a result as that would be, owning a dead planet was useless to Coir. Like the mythical Hydra, killing the pirate's leaders would only allow others to quickly rise to power in their place. More desirable was to capture key individuals and bend them to his dark will, an essential outcome to ensure the rapid collapse and pacification of all resistance.

Intruder 4041 waited in the belly of an anonymous transport ship. As the commander of the assault, Coir was strapped into an inertial dampening harness with no more comfort or amenities than the lowly privates that surrounded him. Shoulder to shoulder with dozens of the best and bravest in the Union, confidence and loyalty permeated the cabin like a heady perfume.

Detecting the emotions of others with the Force was easy when Coir applied himself to the task, but on this day he did not bother. The awe and admiration his subordinates expressed was evident to the most mundane senses. Wide grins and expectant stares were the telltales. Approbation aplenty surrounded him, but he ignored it by closing his eyes and focusing inward in preparation for the coming fight.

Unlike their dour commander, the marines sharing Coir’s dropboat fidgeted with excitement. Respected for putting his life in danger alongside theirs in this and so many other battles, Coir was worshiped by the grunts with greater fervor than any god of war. Believed to be blessed with uncanny luck that protected him and, by proxy, all who traveled with him, their faith was well founded. Coir’s presence assured safe passage through to landfall. If any marines were destined to set foot on the surface of Cabellar and silence the ground defenses, it was those on boat 4041.

Two marines, exemplars among their peers of the extent of open hero worship and superstitious gratitude, sat farthest from Coir with their comms off and the face plates of their helmets touching to ensure a private conversation. The human female, Private Cassidee, spoke with barely contained elation to her pig-snouted, rubbery skinned Gammorrean comrade.

"You know what this means don't you, Rolf?"

Private Rolphrung shrugged his broad shoulders.

"What does what mean?"

"Idiot! Coir. Here with us. It means we’re guaranteed not to be shot out of the air."

Perpetually puzzled, the green-hued alien scratched at his helmet futilely attempting to make contact with the top of his head.

"Uh, why is that?"

"Gods, you’re thick. Coir's the luckiest good luck charm ever. He’s in the front line on every battle and never gets a scratch. Everyone knows he can't be killed. Nothing's gonna touch him or this coffin. That includes us."

Delayed understanding signaled its arrival with Rolf’s happy grunting.

"Sweet. I like not dying."

"Who doesn't, but it gets better than that. By tagging along in his wake, we’re gonna be famous with medals and promotions for sure. We won't never have to buy our own drinks again."

"Drinks? Is there booze in this coffin?"

Cassidee's gauntleted fist slammed into Rolf's shoulder with the force of an impact hammer. The bulky alien barely registered the strike.

"Dolt! I mean when we're off duty and in port. Everyone is gonna treat us drinks just to cozy up to the heroes."

Another helmet pressed against theirs. Sargent Norte seethed with displeasure.

"Can it, you dumb grunts, or I'll shoot you both and use your worthless corpses as stepping stones for Lord Coir's shiny boots."

Cassidee and Rolf obeyed, but their confidence in Coir's good fortune kept them grinning throughout the entire descent.

Luck wasn't what protected Coir and those around him, but the Sith was content to let his minions believe the easy lie. His secret dark side powers allowed him to help his own ship and nearby friendly craft jink, dodge, and evade while deflecting enemy fire. The need for those abilities was fast approaching.

Awaiting the imminent exit from hyperspace and the onset of battle, Coir reviewed fleet status. Seven ships had been lost and a dozen disabled during the jump from Omus, but the numbers were trivial in comparison to the inevitable casualties they would suffer once they engaged the enemy. Having already sacrificed much of himself and countless others, he was willing to sacrifice many more.

His cause was just, and his ultimate foe was also on Cabellar; Coir was certain of that. Intimately intertwined with the military affairs of their pirate proxies, the Jedi would be present attempting to alter the outcome of this battle in their favor.

Smiling a predatory grin, he welcomed the opportunity to engage his real enemy. Too long had he warred with intermediaries while patiently growing his power base. Victory at Cabellar meant an end to the pirates and the beginning of his long planned war with the Republic. He would slash a path to Coruscant with the scythe of victory.

Total destruction of the Jedi Council was Coir's endgame, but nothing else in his ambition lay beyond that moment. Vendetta, not empire building drove him to break the peace. Chaos and carnage were trivial byproducts of his need. What became of the Union and the Republic after he destroyed the Council was no concern. Power was anathema, a tool he used, not a goal he craved.

His lack of desire to dominate made him a most unusual Sith, and his rise to become the master of the Union was equally extraordinary. In the years before the death of his family and the subjugation of his home world, Coir bore a different name and walked a different path. Born as Callan Saorsa, his youth was cut short by the trauma of his family’s brutal murder.

Propelled into a state of maturity for which he was not ready, the peace of his boyhood yielded to the conflict of his adulthood. Recruited by guerrillas rebelling against the raiders, he rose swiftly to become the leader of the resistance. Violence and bloodshed were necessary evils he perpetrated with the purest of motives seeking only to free his people. Though vengeance played a role in his crusade, his heart had not yet become so black that he would toss aside his humanity to let the dark side rule his destiny.

Corruption took root when he was recruited by a wandering Sith searching for an apprentice to assist with the rebuilding of her lost order. Abandoning the grand scale of the previous ten millennia of fruitless war, Darth Cylortha favored Bane's rule of two that avowed that there would be only a master and an apprentice. Open conflict with the Jedi was avoided. Subterfuge, cunning, and political intrigue were her weapons to win power and domination.

Her arrival at Callan’s rebel command center was calculated to impress. Shunting aside the fledgling Force user’s fellow freedom fighters with dismissive flicks of her wrist, the Jade skinned Twi'lek came unopposed, unannounced, and unwelcome to present herself to their young leader.

Fleshy brain-tails sprouted from the top of her skull like ram horns. The appendages were encircled with bands of precious metals and intricately braided tattoos empowered with arcane Sith sorcery. Vambraces upon each arm, greaves covering her calves, and a flowing, padded leather surcoat split front and back from her waist to her knees lent her the appearance of a warrior from the distant, pre-spaceflight past. Her sole concession to modernity was a blaster hung from her right hip and the telltale cylinder of a lightsaber hanging from her left. Neither weapon were needed to penetrate Callan’s defenses in his well-fortified stronghold, and the impressionable young man greatly desired to learn how she had accomplished the miraculous feat.

Cylortha was deliberately tempting him with power, sharing many secrets and revealing the mysteries of the Force but never divulging how or why she found him. Whenever Callan pressed her, she cryptically replied, " _Because you are powerful, and you are ready._ " The ambiguous answer left him unsatisfied, but unrelenting questioning only yielded, " _The Jedi will regret passing you over._ "

Callan suspected that Cylortha had gained access, by nefarious means, to the Council's records. The names of all latent Force users who were tested for selection and training as padawans were carefully documented. Having undergone the trials when the Jedi visited his home world several years before the pirate attack, Callan’s name and abilities would have been among them.

Those had been hopeful times for Callan and for his best friend, who tested at his side. Like brothers, they had been a notorious pair, both naturally strong with the Force. Possessing exceptional physical stamina and athletic prowess, their youth was spent challenging each other to friendly contests, each attempting to outdo the other. Inseparable until the day when only one was chosen to become a padawan, Callan was left behind to wonder why he was unworthy.

Years passed without contact or word from his childhood friend. Jedi visits to Outworld space were rare and becoming rarer as the Unknowns increasingly and vehemently expressed their displeasure with colonization. Lawlessness in Coir’s disputed sector of the galaxy only deepened Outworld isolation from the Republic.

Studying what he could of the Jedi ways, Callan vainly tried to train himself, but Ashlah's inherent rigor and asceticism tested his patience. Nevertheless, he made progress and mastered a few tricks that came naturally such as hiding in shadows and augmenting his already superior athleticism. These tentatively perfected skills spared him from capture, facilitating his escape into the wilderness to endure months of lonely hardship, privation, and self-recrimination for his perceived failure to save his family. When he could bear the isolation and regret no longer, he joined with other refugees, gravitating towards those determined to fight back against his planet's occupiers.

The struggle he led was noble in its initial intent, but the seeds of bitter regret took root and germinated in his soul, growing a malignant harvest of vengeance. External blame for his loss fell primarily upon the pirates, but the Jedi were credible targets of his ire as well for not training him to protect those he loved. Though his hate was fueled by genuine sorrow, it was nevertheless an irrational response. If selected into the ways of Ashla like his friend, he would still be somewhere deep in the Republic, perhaps unaware of his family's fate and certainly incapable of having intervened to prevent their deaths.

It was at this vulnerable moment when Cylortha came to him. Angry, powerful, and determined, Callan was the perfect apprentice candidate. Her initial overtures were rejected, but she was impossible to dismiss and exasperatingly persistent. For months, she stayed at his side, unwelcome but a valuable ally nevertheless, manipulating him via his negative emotions. Tempting him with the seductive allure of the dark side, she promised rapid and easy access to her extraordinary powers. Convinced he could learn without being corrupted, Callan sought to steal Cylortha's knowledge without yielding mastery to her or to his inner demons.

Success, however, is a powerful conversion tool. All of the doubts and warnings that plagued Callan’s conscience were subsumed as he and his mistress united and liberated the people of his home world. A stunning triumph born of dark side bloodshed captured a flotilla of pirate ships. With a navy, they freed Callan’s system, but the real victory was Cylortha’s. Seduced, the innocent young man name Callan vanished, replaced by the Sith named Coir.

Lacking all desire for power, Coir was Cylortha’s ultimate foil. An apprentice without ambition lacked motive to betray her. She had only to feed his hunger for revenge to keep him on the narrow path of his black journey, but she knew that the pirates would not long survive his fury. Cylortha thus fanned the flames of his animosity towards the Jedi Council into an unquenchable furnace. It was they she convinced him, that were the ultimate source of his woe. Nourished with a banquet of selective truth tailored to his cravings, Coir believed her.

Coir was dutiful, obeying her edicts. More powerful than he, she held dominion, and much that was evil transpired in her service as her new apprentice was unwittingly used to further Cylortha’s desire for complete domination of the galaxy. Unwilling governments were brought to heal, reluctant leaders assassinated, enemies slaughtered, and all resistance crushed.

Thus was the Union birthed, but freedom under Cylortha was a luxury unaffordable under the crushing debt of domination. Though Coir executed her commands, ruthlessly suppressing dissent, he exercised power with a lighter glove than his Twi’lek mentor. Where Cylortha employed violence, intimidation, and extortion to govern, Coir relied more upon harsh discipline, absolute loyalty from his subordinates, daring leadership, and success in battle. By no means kind, he was seen as the lesser of two evils, and many cheered the day he succeeded Cylortha as the Union’s highest power.

Reckless greed nurtured by arrogance precipitated her demise. Behind Coir's back, she negotiated deals with the nascent Pirate Confederation granting them access to raid and plunder certain Outworld systems with impunity in return for help in conquering others to add to her rapidly expanding empire. A mined out asteroid riddled with abandoned tunnels was chosen for her clandestine treaty signing with the greedy brigands. Representatives and a few leaders from the Pirate Confederation met the two Sith there. Coir was ignorant of Cylortha's purpose at first, but when he learned of her compromise, neither Callan nor Coir would abide it.

He made a quick end to the pirate vermin before challenging his mistress. Dual lightsabers of his own design, joinable at the hilt, afforded Coir a versatile weapon serving as a double bladed staff or two independently wielded blades. Supremely coordinated, he was capable of separating and combining the blades on the attack or defense with flawless precision. Though Cylortha fought in the traditional manner with one saber, she summoned a force shield in her off hand at will to deflect blows to her seemingly defenseless left side.

An epic battle ensued in eerie, ethereal silence as their duel raged through the microgravity tunnels and vast airless caverns of that forsaken rock orbiting far from its parent star. Lit only by the ruby glow of crackling plasma, they fought their way ever deeper into the asteroid’s core. As though the entire universe held its breath awaiting the outcome, the combatants' perception of time slowed, creating the illusion they battled for hours. When it was over, only the ship's chronometer provided Coir a sense of the few tens of minutes that they had spent chasing each other through the maze of the mined-out planetoid.

The end came when Coir, strengthened by his dark side enhanced fury over Cylortha's treachery, sundered her weapon, decapitated her left arm, and plunged one end of his saberstaff through her abdomen. A contemptuous kick sent her weightless body spinning through the vacuum into a tangled mass of broken metal pipes that he Force-wrapped about her forming a makeshift cage. As she died within her prison, he sent her hurling towards the heart of the asteroid, where centuries old radioactive mining waste still emanated its deadly subatomic aura.

Satisfied that no one, not even a queen of dark magic could survive that hell, Coir departed as an initiate no longer. Though he was the master, he refused to train another apprentice. Bane's rule meant nothing to Coir. He was a Sith out of necessity, not tradition or allegiance to any creed, but he did not abandon the dark side or the teachings of Cylortha. Instead, he blazed his own twisted path along the Force continuum reshaping the Union on slightly gentler terms. The days of assassinations, murder, and open oppression were over. A reputation for merciless retribution and despotic domination served his needs well enough.

  


Abrupt deceleration that even the inertial dampeners could not entirely eliminate, dispelled the specters from Coir's past. Exiting hyperspace, the Union arrived at Cabellar.

Coir issued no orders. Slaboch was a competent commander. Coir trusted him to execute his plan. Satisfied to monitor events without interfering, the Sith reviewed the rapidly developed intelligence reports declaring his ruse a success. The bulk of the pirate's forces were many parsecs away engaging the decoy fleet unaware that their capital was about to fall.

Mearganta's ships bravely met the system's inadequate reserve fleet and stationary orbital defenses. In less than thirty minutes, all but the weapons beneath Cabellar’s surface were destroyed. Free to fire upon Coir's fleet without fear of hitting their own nonexistent ships, the planet’s buried weapons tipped the balance, and the Union began taking losses. Mearganta protected the marine transport ships. Of the Union ships destroyed thus far, Coir was disappointed that the arrogant captain’s command ship was not among them.

Relentless lances of energy streaked upward from the planet's surface burning holes in the atmosphere and illuminating the hovering Union ship's protective shielding to blaze like new born stars. Every so often one went nova leaving nothing but atomized debris in its wake. Return fire from destroyers and battleships pounded the ground defenses in an attempt to silence them and clear landing areas for the marines.

To minimize exposure of the transports, their captains raced to the edge of the planet's atmosphere with their shields on maximum, discharged the landing boats, and fled to safety. One such ship was destroyed when caught in the crossfire from three railguns simultaneously. Several others sustained major damage, but thousands of drop coffins defied their sarcastic moniker and launched successfully. The small craft became the primary targets of the planet's defenses as they fought their way to establish a beachhead.

Wielding the Force like a giant, invisible hand, Coir nudged missiles and energy bursts aside. He swatted several of the enemy's atmospheric fighter craft hard enough to send them spiraling to the ground trailing plumes of smoke. From orbit, Slaboch shot down the remainder, seizing control of the skies and thus the high ground. Their combined efforts ensured an adequate contingent reached the ground at the edge of Shan-Ri-Mune.

The moment boat 4041 made contact near the city’s edge, marines bravely disembarked ahead of their revered leader. Coir let them protect him knowing their effort served no purpose other than to boost their morale. With relentless efficiency, a temporary defensive perimeter was erected, and sorties of troops soon began to seek out their objectives in tanks, crawlers, and speeders. Night descended as the city was secured and the ground defenses fell silent one by one. Victory became all but inevitable.

It was time for Coir to claim his prize. With a company of marines as superfluous guards, he set out towards the Grand Forum. Coir ordered his troops into the warren within the ancient volcanic pinnacle with instructions to capture as many political prisoners as possible. Alone, Coir scaled the side of mountain, desiring that his meeting with his Jedi foes be unhindered by the presence of his own troops.

  


Slaboch fought war with meticulous and surgical precision, bringing ample firepower to each fight but utilizing only the minimum force and energy required of each battle. The bombardment of Cabellar was no exception. Very little damage was done to the capital city other than at the sites of the ground-based defenses, where only burning craters remained. One notable and unfortunate exception was the Grand Forum itself. Coir observed smoke rising from the top of the plateau before he reached the summit. Surmounting the park wall, the planet’s two amber moons illuminated the imploded dome surrounded by its damaged, but still standing and encircling, covered colonnade.

Even Coir, whose aesthetic sensibilities had withered under the dark malevolence of his hate, was grieved over the pointless destruction of something so magnificent. The incongruous feeling was quickly banished as his dark side senses detected the nearby presence of another Force user.

A sibilant hiss of pleasure escaped his lips. A Jedi was indeed waiting for him. Curiously, there was an unexpected familiarity surrounding this one. Coir was perplexed. Since his fateful meeting with Cylortha, all Jedi he had encountered had died at his hand. None that he would recognize should live.

Coir moved silently and invisibly through the damaged, outer ring of the Forum towards the source of the tantalizing thread. Indistinguishable from the shadows, he stalked among the numerous marble columns until he drew near the object of his search standing alone holding a silent vigil in what had been the main entrance.

A once elegant domed portico capped the space that served as a covered foyer bridging the gardens outside and the broad internal stairway that formerly led downward gracefully past terraced seating beneath the dome to the floor of the Forum's amphitheater. Struck by a stray rail gun blast from one of Slaboch’s battleships, the hyper-accelerated projectile not only collapsed the main dome, it buckled dozens of levels beneath, creating a deep, steeply sided pit. The portico's smaller dome miraculously remained standing, but it was cracked. Pale light from the brighter of Cabellar's two natural satellites shone down upon a face time had barely touched.

As if trapped in a waking dream, memories and associated emotions from Coir's youth filled his conscious mind unbidden like a sudden release of water from a failed dam. The Sith lord nearly gasped aloud upon recognizing the finely chiseled features almost lost to his memories. Somehow, in all of his planning and scheming, he had let himself forget that his dearest childhood friend had joined the organization he sought so desperately to annihilate.

Remaining in the shadows, which were like a second skin, Coir struggled to recover from his shock. Remorseless hate had brought him here with no reservations against killing, but now, uncertainty made him pause and reconsider.

"So, dark one,” said Manus unaware of the identity of his lurking foe. “You made it here at last."

Neither able to see nor locate Coir precisely, the presence of another Force user could not stay hidden from a knight with Olcan's abilities.

"You wish to claim this seat of power?” he asked of the shadows. “Then you must come through me to get it. I will cut you down if you try. Show yourself, you skulking coward."

Manus remained still. His lightsaber hung on his belt as if forgotten, but it was a deliberate gesture demonstrating his self-confidence and disdain for his unseen and silent opponent.

"I am surprised that you are here. You like to hide in the night letting others do your dirty work. That is the way of the Sith these days isn't it? Defeat has made you afraid. You prefer now to let others take risks and die on your behalf. Bravery, honor, and sacrifice mean nothing to you."

The words of Coir’s old friend rankled and re-stoked the fading furnace of his anger and jealousy. What did Manus the golden child, Manus the chosen one, Manus the handsome, Manus the lucky know about bravery, honor, or sacrifice? He hadn't been left behind to fumble about for enlightenment with an untrained gift. He wasn't there to watch his family slaughtered when the pirates descended on his home. He did not have to build an empire from nothing to achieve his goals. Everything Manus had ever wanted came to him served on a silver platter.

The Jedi order that had rejected Callan and accepted Manus had supported the policies that killed Coir’s kin. The Jedi had taken Manus into their arms and nurtured him until he was one of them. The old, pleasant memories that had flooded Coir’s brain dried up and evaporated in the resultant heat that hate, envy, and regret brought. Indecision was consumed by his singularity of purpose growing powerful again as it drew in all other thoughts, crushing and devouring them to feed its growing resurgence.

"Hypocrite!" Coir declared. "If you have honor, then explain your presence here, if you can, without choking on your own lies. What possible purpose could you have in Shan-Ri-Mune other than feeding your criminal friends more ships and weapons to fight your proxy war? I personally led my troops into battle today. It is you who lets others fight your war. I name you the coward.

"The Jedi speak from one side of their mouth proclaiming they will protect the Republic and maintain peace and stability, while with the other side they order the destruction of the dreams of those who only sought to settle in a new place. Every word the Council speaks is a lie to deceive the ignorant and assuage the consciences of those who benefit from the status quo. I am surprised, Manus, that you have so thoroughly forgotten your roots that you would believe the Jedi Council."

Manus' outward cloak of calm self-assurance wavered as he struggled with the eerie familiarity of the hidden speaker. It was a voice he had never expected to hear again. Certainly, this place and these circumstances were not what he would have chosen to be reunited with a once cherished friend. His desire to deny the truth was strong, but the Force signature, though dark and veiled, was unmistakable.

"Callan? Is that really you?"

"That name and the boy who owned it died years ago when everything he lived for was taken away by the Council."

"Who are you now, then?"

A prolonged silence ensued. Manus concentrated harder attempting to locate his opponent, but found the source of his former friend to be nebulous, scattered, and veiled. It was as though Callan was nowhere and everywhere at once.

"That's a neat trick being able to hide your location within the fabric of the Force. Are you afraid to come out and reveal who you have become?"

"Fear is a stranger to me, and there is no risk in revealing my identity. You will not be returning to the Council with the secret. I was giving you a moment to divine the answer, but perhaps I misjudged your intelligence. You always were more handsome than smart. I am Darth Coir."

Manus bristled at his onetime friend's insult, but knew better than to respond in kind. Even as children there was no doubt who was more clever. Manus learned long ago not to let Callan lead him into a contest of wits, but that was exactly what he had to attempt to turn his friend from the dark side. The alternative was a fight to the death.

The likelihood of the former was unknown. Of the latter, he was certain that he could best Callan in a battle. Secrets Manus had coaxed unwittingly from his Jedi master made him more powerful in combat than any other knight, perhaps even than those on the Council. If it came to a duel, he would triumph, but saving his friend from the blackness was paramount.

"Ah. Thanks for enlightening me, old friend. So much that was hidden is now clear. The Council will be eager to learn of this. In fact, they would advise me to escape with this knowledge. They are ever impatient to crush any re-emergence of the Sith before they become too powerful. You have become quite powerful. The Council will bend all their efforts to stop you once they know who and what you are, but why should it come to that? We were friends once. We can be so again. Recant the dark side. Let go of the past. Come with me to explain yourself to them and experience their mercy."

"Mercy? They do not know what mercy is. They sick their dogs on the Outworlds because we are inconvenient to their timid plans. They care not who dies or who suffers because of their fears. They sit in their temple tower on Coruscant and praise themselves for keeping the peace while billions suffer, and they have the gall to proclaim themselves the keepers of all that is good and holy, while I am cast as the villain of darkness. I have shown mercy and brought hope to those who had none. Who bears the brunt of my rage and suffers from my policies and decisions? Criminals! Pirates! Who suffers from the Jedi's ill conceived plans? Innocent settlers. Women. Children. Families. My family, Manus!"

Coir's rage was building and feeding on emotions untamed and uncontrolled. The temptation to lunge out from his place of concealment to cut Manus down was nearly overpowering. He held himself back, though, out of a lingering fondness for the relationship they once had. If only they were friends again; their combined power could much more effectively destroy the Jedi Council and their minions than one lone Force renegade. If Coir could convince Manus of the justness of his cause, that labels like "dark" and "light" meant nothing, victory would be assured. Coir would then be able to put an end to his torment, find peace, and travel a new road, perhaps even away from the dark side.

"You think that I should grovel on my knees before the Council and beg forgiveness?"

"I do. It is not too late."

"Oh, it is far too late, old friend. Can you understand my motivation? Do you know why I have nurtured the Union? Though my actions result in mercy and happiness for countless souls and the bringing to justice of thieving pirates, those are accidental benefits of a deeper purpose."

"What is your _deeper_ purpose?"

"Vengeance! The complete destruction of the Jedi Council and all who helped them support the policies that killed my family."

Manus paused to consider this confusing statement. Unaware of the murder of Callan's kin, he was equally ignorant of the circumstances behind the tragedy.

"What are you talking about? I am sorry if your family was lost somehow, but it couldn't possibly have been the Council's fault."

"Are you blind or a liar? Surely your own family was also killed. The town where we grew up was completely destroyed. I was one of a handful of survivors. There weren't even any bodies left in the rubble to identify."

The Jedi's silence was ominous. Coir sensed Manus' conflicting emotions and wondered at their meaning. He soon had his answer.

"My family was moved by the Council to another world within the Republic. They never told me why. I wasn't allowed to visit them while I trained, so it seemed odd to me at the time."

Despite his desire to reconcile with his old friend, Coir's rage flowered anew.

"When did they do this? When was your family moved?" he demanded.

"It was more than two years after I left, late in the year 2,361i I think."

No more proof was needed to forever convince Coir that the Jedi on Coruscant understood in advance the foul outcome of their policies.

"Mere months before the attack on our home world. How convenient for you. Do you expect me to believe that you knew nothing of it? Your masters surely did."

"Until today, I did not even know our home world had been attacked. News from the Outworlds rarely reaches the Republic. Besides, the Republic is focused inwards now that there is peace. No one wants to look outward for trouble."

Hoping for reconciliation, Manus paused considering how best to express the sympathy he felt for his bereaved friend.

"I am sorry about your family, but neither I nor the Council had anything to do with it."

"I believe it is possible that you were innocent in this matter, but not them. Do not even try to defend your masters. Your presence here is the proof that they are the strength behind the Pirate Confederation. Our home world would not have been plundered if not for the gifts provided by your masters to these vermin."

"You don't know for certain the Council knew of the pending destruction of our home."

"Don't be a fool. They shepherded your family away because they knew what was coming. My family was left to die. You must see now that my cause is righteous. Join me. I will show you how the dark side can make you stronger. We can be together again like old times. No one will be able to stop us."

Manus considered Coir's offer. That a causal relationship existed between the Council’s actions and his friend's grief was suspicious, but even if the all that Coir said was true, it did not justify his vendetta. The Council was wise. Balancing the needs of the many against the few meant order and peace in the galaxy. Sacrifices were necessary, and it was unfortunate that Callan had been a victim of that need. Manus truly felt sympathy for his old friend, but abandoning his status and aspirations would not atone for the past. Once Manus sat on the Council, he would ensure that the greater good was achieved in his own way. He would bring humane control to the Outworlds. He had no desire to join the mad quest undertaken by the deranged being his friend had become.

As he began slowly pacing about the room, Manus reached out with his mind trying to locate the hidden Sith. Though Coir seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once, occasionally a source slightly stronger than the others loomed conspicuously in Manus' mind. Difficult to define and hold, he felt that if he could slowly block out the impressions of Coir that were fainter, he might eventually be able to capture the true source. To buy time, he feigned interest in Coir's offer.

"Are you proposing I be your apprentice? I am a knight, you know. I have a padawan of my own."

"Equals, friend. No master or apprentice. Just us working together."

"How would that work? You are the leader of the Union military. I don't see room for me."

"You want power? I can give you that. Take this world. Take the Pirate Confederation and make it into whatever you want. Just work with me to bring down the Council."

Manus continued his search, slowly eliminating phantom impressions of his foe.

"Then what? We all know the Sith do not share power. Do we end up fighting each other for supremacy?"

"Not at all. If the power pleases you, then keep the Union, the Confederation, and the Republic when we are done. I will no longer have need of any of them. You will be the lord of the greatest galactic empire ever."

"That does not sound like a Sith talking. When has one of the dark side ever relinquished power without a fight?"

"What do I care of the ways of the Sith? Their traditions mean nothing to me. There is power in the dark side, and I use it. I am not a slave to it."

Manus doubted that was possible, but did not argue the point. He was getting close. There were just a few more false apparitions to eliminate.

"Your offer is generous, friend, but I must decline. The dark side is ruinous. It has turned you into a skulking creature of the shadows. I much prefer to stand in the light and let people see me for who I really am. Since you have been generous to me, I will extend my offer to you one last time to come out and join me as a Jedi."

Silence was the gloom's response.

"It seems then, that we are both adamant in our resolve to stay on our current paths. Neither of us can afford to let the other leave here alive. I suppose a coward who can cloak himself in the dark and hide himself so skillfully could sneak away, but then I will escape with your secret and warn the Council. We are at an impasse."

Manus stopped his slow pacing by a column where his old friend’s essence was the strongest. He focused his mind to block out all the other scattered duplicate presences vying to distract and confuse him. Now was the time to flush out his adversary and kill him. It was a necessary duty; Callan was beyond all hope and was threatening Manus' future.

"Well? Here I am. Blind to your whereabouts and helpless. My hands are empty, and I stand here in defiance of your dark side powers. You are no match for me. I have always been better than you. That is why I was chosen by the Jedi and you were not. You are unworthy. Your surrender to evil is proof of that. Show yourself, you sniveling dog. Attack me! I dare you. Or are you afraid that I truly am more powerful than your tricks and deceptions?"

Coir struggled to restrain himself despite his expanding rage. A trace of hope to convince his friend of the righteousness of his pursuit of justice remained, but it withered rapidly under the realization that Manus had let himself be wholly seduced by the Jedi's lies. He was one of them. Whatever had made them friends in the past was dead and lost forever. This was not the Manus of his youth. This was only another treacherous Jedi arrogantly doing nothing to defend himself. Coir had dispatched better prepared opponents many times before. If this one wanted to make his task easier, so be it.

Surrendering to the passions of his Sith training, Coir embraced the familiar sharpening of purpose and enhanced control of the Force. Coherent beams of red plasma leapt forth from both ends of his saberstaff, and he thrust with one end at his vulnerable enemy's back.

  


The underground command center of Cabellar's defense system was a madhouse of chaotic activity. Having chosen self preservation over fidelity and duty, the military leaders of the Pirate Confederation had abandoned their underlings. The battle was indeed hopeless, but Hanlah still despised them for running. Fortunately, those officers who stayed trusted her as a recognized Jedi ally. No one objected when she assumed the rank of commander.

It was well that they did not. The Union fleet was positioned to destroy anything that flew. Her first order was to ground all fighter craft saving the lives of many pilots who would have otherwise died unnecessarily. Cabellar's strength was in their position underground and the immense energies they could siphon from the planet's mantle to hurl into space. Orbiting ships could not long withstand such an assault. Nearly two dozen had been destroyed or critically damaged already, and given time, she had the resources to annihilate them all.

Unfortunately, time was the one resource she lacked. Too many of the Union's ground forces had made it to the planet's surface. They were steadily infiltrating and shutting down the repulsor cannons and other buried defenses. Hanlah's command screens now showed that the majority of her weapons were off line, and the remainder were going dark at a rapid pace.

A concussive thump and a violent shaking alerted her that soon even her command center would fall, and the battle would be over. It was time to prepare the troops for surrender and for her to find Manus. The dark presence she had sensed earlier was much stronger now. Her master was in trouble. She could feel it. They needed to escape before escape became impossible. She activated the comm system that reached every corner of the planner's defenses and each soldier's helmet speakers.

"Attention. This is acting Commander Hanlah Aka of the Cabellar Defense Forces. You have fought well and bravely to defend your home against a well coordinated orbital and ground assault, but further resistance is hopeless. There is no shame in laying down our arms. Fighting on to die for no gain is a waste. I, therefore, order an immediate surrender. Field commanders are to engage with local Union officers in charge of the assault informing them of our intentions and arranging for the proper care and handling of prisoners. I am transmitting our surrender to the orbital fleet now and shutting down all planetary defenses to prove our sincerity. May the Force be with you. Aka out."

Total silence enveloped the command center. Dismay was mixed with relief. Hanlah prepared a holo message for Admiral Slaboch requesting terms. When it was ready, she had it transmitted. She then made sure that all planetary weapons systems that remained under her control were taken off line. Grabbing the highest ranking officer present, a nervous Kaleesh Colonel, Hanlah placed her in charge of negotiating with Slaboch and excused herself using the lie that she needed to meet directly with Union leaders in charge of the capture of the city.

As soon as Hanlah was alone, she donned her hood and cape, activated her personal cloaking camouflage and stole out of the complex before the victors could properly seal all the exits. The process of surrender would take time and cause confusion, allowing her to travel across the city, find Manus, and help him defeat the Sith. Hanlah was certain she would have no problems. The Force was always at her side.

  


Coir's rising fury betrayed his presence, providing warning milliseconds before the red beam of his saber struck forth from behind the pillar. Deftly pivoting his body aside, Manus evaded it. Bent on murder, Coir brought the opposing end of his weapon around the opposite side of the pillar, but Manus dodged it as well.

Frustrated by the casual ease of his opponent's evasion, Coir marshaled his strength and sliced low through the marble pillar, cutting the rock as if it were paper. Springing upward to avoid amputation of his legs, Manus' jump was anticipated by Coir, who brought the second blade back around high, slicing again through the pillar at neck level. Manus ducked barely in time, feeling the energy of the humming blade graze mere centimeters from his skull.

Having driven Manus off balance, Coir kicked the severed section of pillar at his foe. In a desperate attempt to prevent being crushed, Manus interposed his hands between the rock and himself drawing upon the Force as a shield. He blunted the worst of its momentum, but it nevertheless pushed him across the smooth marble floor nearly outside into the gardens. Coir charged to take advantage of Manus' distress, but the Jedi confounded him by absorbing the pillar's momentum, reversing it, and hurling it back.

Desiring a quick end to this fight, Coir neither ducked, dodged, nor sidestepped the deadly obstacle. Without breaking his stride, he sliced through the stone lengthwise, slid between the separating halves, and jabbed at Manus' belly. Again, Manus' agility allowed him to evade even as Coir swept his saber up and down in powerful arcs always just missing his maddeningly dodging foe.

With calculated precision, Coir swept his blade in front of the Jedi as a feint knowing he would step back. Coir let his swing carry him in a graceful spin with the handle of his saber staff tucked against his body, then extended it with lighting speed as he completed his turn aiming for Manus' vulnerable mid-section.

Manus somersaulted over the speeding blade to land on his feet, punching the startled Sith in the jaw. Coir staggered back from the unexpected and unconventional assault. Manus chose that moment to draw his saber, activating the electric blue plasma stream and advancing. Coir was forced into a defensive retreat.

Manus was a more skilled opponent than Coir could ever have imagined, but even with his nimble dodges, he was not Coir's better. Manus relied too much on evasion. It was clear that he was used to less competent opponents. With his double blade advantage, Coir soon returned to the attack.

Their battle raged around the marble foyer, each one winning and losing the initiative many times until Manus brought about a temporary halt by sweeping Coir's blade up and over his head and back down to pin it smoldering upon the marble floor. Using his free hand, he grabbed the hilt of Coir's saber. Coir responded in kind using one hand to clutch Manus' saber hilt as the Jedi raised his weapon to strike. In the ensuing struggle, muscles strained, but neither was able to move the other no matter how much power they summoned to the task.

"You are doomed," grunted Coir. "My cause is right, and I will prevail."

Manus was unimpressed.

"That's a mighty boast," he answered through clenched teeth. "History has shown over and over that the dark side is inferior. It is a short cut and a cheat to quick and easy power that diverts one away from true enlightenment. You think you are strong, but you have chosen the weaker path."

"I am the better swordsman. You know that."

"I know no such thing. I have some tricks that I have not revealed, like this."

With a quick flick of his neck, Manus head butted Coir, driving the Sith backward. Manus was on the attack again, but it didn't last. Soon, the red blades were spinning and whirling in from both sides seemingly at once. The Jedi ducked and darted, but his cleverness was his undoing. Escaping with a back flip placed him perilously close to the edge of the broken stairway above the smoldering pit of shattered stone that was once the Forum's amphitheater. It was an elegant move, but it gave Coir the advantage he needed to Force push Manus into the abyss.

Coir deactivated his saberstaff and strode carefully to the brink peering into the blackness. Lit by moonlight, Manus could be seen clinging to a strand of reinforcing metal protruding from the now nearly vertical wall of the pit. It was at least fifty feet below the Jedi's boots to the rubble strewn darkness. Manus was too far down for Coir to reach, but close enough that he might be able to climb back out. Coir prepared to hurl some blocks of rock at the dangling Jedi, when he sensed a hostile presence approaching from behind.

Reactivating his saber, he interposed it between his back and a new opponent's crackling blade. He turned, batting the opposing saber away. Though unequal to Coir in fighting ability, the hooded attacker was undeterred, resuming the assault with a curiously gold colored blade. The Sith easily dodged the shrouded figure while maintaining a small part of his attention towards the pit to ensure Manus had not yet escaped his predicament.

Little more than an annoyance, the padawan ineptly slashed and thrust to no effect. Coir soon grew impatient. Capturing the golden blade with his red, he swept it aside striking swiftly with his saberstaff's opposing blade. Avoiding impalement by a temporary retreat, the cloaked figure obstinately came at him again. Coir toyed with the fool by repeating the same maneuver multiple times gauging the competence of his enemy until delivering a nearly lethal thrust.

Intimidated by the heat of his blade grazing her shoulder, she was distracted allowing Coir to push back her hood with a flicking motion of his fingers. The padawan was indeed a female as Coir had suspected, but more intriguing was her race.

"A Sith," he hissed. This was unexpected. "Why do you fight against me? Are you one of the pirates? A mercenary?"

Hanlah attempted to obscure her face again, but Coir brushed her hood away easily.

"Answer me. You are of the dark side. Why attack me? What is your motive?"

Hanlah stood defiant before the intimidating figure that was clearly the better warrior. Defeating him seemed an impossibility, but she would not abandon her master to this monster.

"I am Hanlah Aka, and I am no acolyte of the dark side. I am padawan to Knight Olcan."

Coir paced around his victim. She turned slowly, facing him and stepping backwards to remain beyond his reach.

"A Sith Force user who is not a Sith? How curious. I am surprised the Jedi would have you. They hate everything that has the slightest taint of the dark side. I can sense the turmoil that your natural affinity creates in you. Certainly a Jedi master or even a knight like Olcan would sense it too."

Hanlah flinched ever so slightly from her tormentor’s keen insight, and her reaction amused him.

"So, you are not really one of them, then. They haven't accepted you, have they? You don't fit in with their notions of right and wrong."

The dark one's speculation was too accurate for Hanlah's comfort. She wished to deny his assertions but refused to lie to defend herself.

"My master accepts me for what I am, a Jedi."

"How noble of him and of you to throw your life away defending him, but for what? Even if he trains you, the Jedi won't make you a knight. They know what lurks at the core of your being. It is hard wired into you to feel the dark side and know its power. Look within yourself, padawan. Feel the pull. Feel the strength. You know it is the only hope you have to defeat me. Your ability to fight suffers because of your conflict as you attempt to balance both ends."

There was truth in his words but also lies. Hanlah could not deny that she was tempted daily by her own nature to seek the easy path the dark side offered. There was power there for the taking if only she would abandon her resolve and let her emotions run free. Her golden lightsaber was a visible product of her conflict. The Jedi refused her the ilum crystals she needed for its construction, so she synthesized her own. Her desire was to produce a green saber akin to those used by the Jedi Consulars, who eschewed violence except as a last resort, preferring instead to immerse themselves in unraveling the mysteries of the Force. She meditated carefully during the days it took her to forge her crystals, always concentrating on the light, but the darkness within her tainted the crystal with red. The result was an unusual yellow saber that the Council insisted was proof of her unsuitability to be a Jedi.

The lies in his words were that the dark side was the ultimate source of might. Hanlah had studied the lives of masters who had found a balance. True strength and power lay there. It did not necessarily ensure victory in combat, but it did promote harmony of thought and purpose that was the supreme triumph. Hanlah believed that the balance was ultimately better even it took far longer to find. If she never achieved it because she was destined to die today, then she accepted that. It was her chosen path, and she did not care if the road was short or long.

"Do not waste your breath on me, dark one. Let the bitterness of your own heart dominate your destiny. I have made my peace and will find an equilibrium that will be more powerful than anything you can ever become."

"Another mind-washed tool of the Jedi," scoffed Coir. "That is all you are. Pity. If only you weren't blind to your real enemies. Instead, you do their dirty work. So be it," he sighed.

Coir dropped his blade slightly feigning carelessness. Duped, Hanlah struck at his head. Blocking it effortlessly, he drove her mercilessly backwards alternating with the ends of his saberstaff making her frantically defend both sides against the blurring red blades. Killing her would have been no effort, but he held back for a final attempt to make her see reason.

Pinning her blade to the floor, Coir backhanded her across the face. Hanlah reeled from the blow. The Sith stalked slowly after her.

"This is folly, Sith girl. We should not fight. Help me, instead, to bring down the Council. I have no need for power, only vengeance. When we stand victorious, I will place you at the head of your order. All will be compelled to admit the righteousness of your ideals. Spend all of your time searching for your balance. Enforce harmony upon the universe. It will not matter to me, because I will be satisfied and disappear into obscurity."

Hanlah wiped her lip and glanced at the blood that stained her red skin a darker burgundy.

"So you say now. You may even believe it, but if you achieve your goal, will you it find it so easy to abandon the opportunity to dominate that will be waiting there for you?"

"I seek justice, not to impose my will upon others."

"Then abandon the dark side, give up your vendetta, and find the balance within the Force. What you are doing is a perversion. You are using it for a petty cause. You..."

Coir’s anger flared with the intensity of a quasar.

"Petty? What would you know of my cause? I thought that someone oppressed like you might understand what is like to be tyrannized, to have everything you loved stolen from you, but I see that you are just another Jedi slave beguiled and deluded into furthering their perverse policies.”

As Coir spoke, and as he grew frustrated with the propensity of fools like Manus and Hanlah who could not understand that for which he fought, his rage increased. Greater power coalesced about him magnifying both his abilities, and in turn, negative emotions in an accelerating feedback spiral. Callan called out to him to spare this padawan. Coir sympathized and truly wanted to convert her to his side, but if she would not listen, and insisted on remaining a loyal dog of the Council, he had no choice but to destroy her.

Furious, fast, and relentless, his attack drove her backwards, staggering around the marble foyer until her back was against a heap of broken masonry. Further retreat was impossible. Hanlah's strength was fading as Coir's increased, but with luck and all her effort, she managed to immobilize his staff against a nearby pillar. It was a temporary halt to the enraged Sith's assault.

“Forsake your anger and turn back to the light,” pleaded Hanlah.

“Draw strength from the dark as have I or be killed,” countered Coir.

The conflicting plasma streams sparked and flared. Red advanced inexorably and gold retreated inch by inch towards Hanlah’s thigh. A sudden nudge by Coir burnt fabric and singed flesh. Hanlah screamed, instinctively recoiled, and kicked with her uninjured leg catching her opponent unawares. The blow landed hard in Coir's mid-section, stunning him.

Hanlah sidestepped into the open again, temporarily free but injured and possessing no strategy other than survival. The Sith pursued with renewed aggression. Dark side energy radiated from him, enveloping Hanlah in a suffocating haze like a narcotic smog tempting her to inhale its seductive promise of expanded consciousness and ability. Refusing to yield, even in her own defense, she sought the strength of inner peace, but Coir's final onslaught proved too overwhelming for faith alone to endure.

With a series of windmill like attacks descending upon her head, each parry felt as though it were intercepting the pounding of an enraged rancor’s fist. Her injured leg buckled, dropping her to one knee. Repeated blows drove her down until she collapsed upon her back. A flick of Coir’s saberstaff swept her weapon from her hands to deactivate as the hilt clattered across the floor. Coir stomped on her wrist, pinning her dueling arm. She was defenseless as he spun his saberstaff over his head, then gripped the conjoined hilts and drove it towards her heart.

Consumed utterly by his black temper, Coir was empowered with everything he needed except the capacity for mercy. Deep inside, Callan struggled to prevent Coir from killing the padawan. Hanlah's words concerning the balance between the light and the dark strummed a resonating chord. Instinctively, Coir coveted the same ideal, but he was beyond rational control. If only Troicaire weren’t a distant pile of crumpled metal. The droid was expert at helping Coir assuage his anger, but no such assistance intervened to end this pointless contest.

Hanlah's doom seemed sealed until her prostate form slid sideways to skim across the foyer until her head impacted against a pillar, leaving her dazed and senseless. Penetrating the empty space once occupied by her supine body, crimson plasma plunged deep into the marble floor vaporizing the rock with its passage. Secret gratitude found a small refuge in Coir’s corrupted heart.

"Thank you," he whispered to the nebulous powers of the universe during the brief pause before he wrenched his staff out of the floor and spun to defend himself against Manus bounding out of the abyss.

In the gloom, the blue and red beams collided, slashed past each other, and cavorted in a blurry dance seemingly independent of the men who wielded them. Scarlet led the deadly gambol thanks to Coir’s complete immersion in the passionate embrace of the dark side.

Driven back by Coir's rage, Manus soon became besieged. He pulled part of the ceiling down between him and his opponent to secure a pause in the melee.

"You fight well, my old friend," he panted, catching his breath. "The teachings of the Sith have made you strong, but not strong enough. Let me show you what I have learned without the need of your dark side cheats."

Manus charged. Coir stood ready to block whatever mischief the Jedi had planned, but he was woefully unprepared for what transpired. Two strides short of contact, Manus inexplicably swung his light saber downward in a wild and premature strike with no chance of hitting Coir. The effect was staggering nonetheless. Cerulean plasma and recondite focusing of ancient Force sorcery tore at the bonds holding the universe together. Coir was stunned by the immense, ensuing pulse of energy sending shock waves through the fabric of the Force. Even Hanlah, who lay unconscious on the floor, writhed and curled up into herself in response.

Never slowing, Manus glided between the scintillating edges of the rent in space-time and disappeared. Slamming closed behind him, the ghastly portal generated another burst of energy that concussed Coir's senses a second time. As if shell-shocked in the aftermath of an intense artillery barrage, he was temporarily blind and deaf to his surroundings and even the Force.

Awareness returned with painful slowness. Coir's training and talent combined to dispel the disconcerting reverberations quickly enough to detect another energy spike building at his back. Using the Force to guide his defense, Coir executed a volte-face, interposing his saber to block the blue blade that thrust from a second tear manifesting with the same devastating impact as before. Prepared, its effect was less pronounced as Coir countered with a negating Force surge of his own.

Immune to the massive disturbance he induced, Manus scored several near misses upon his weakened opponent. Coir escaped to the shadows, masking his presence. Manus laughed defiantly in the moonlit center of the foyer.

"Had enough, old friend? Are you ready to admit the inferiority of the dark side?"

Though he feigned arrogant indifference, Manus cast his senses about, searching for his shrouded opponent. Coir remained hidden pondering this new development, which he sensed as neither of the light or the dark but instead a violation of the Force itself. Though both tears had closed, scar-like damage remained for those like Coir who could sense it. To use and master the Force was one thing. To harm it was another.

“ _Has Manus gone mad to do such a thing?”_ wondered Coir. " _Where did he discovered such power_?"

Regardless of it's source, Manus had just become a much more dangerous opponent. Destroying him quickly was imperative lest the sorcery he wielded be used to undo all of Coir’s patient labors.

Leaping from the shadows, all of Coir’s skill, determination, and rage powered his attack. Manus was hard pressed and retreated, escaping death again using his violent new trick to disappear just as Coir tried cutting him in half. Placed on the defensive as Manus leapt out of yet another unpredictable rent, Coir was nearly impaled through his back.

After struggling to regain the initiative only to lose it again, Coir recognized patterns in Manus' devilry and altered his tactics accordingly. Diverting energy from offense, Coir expended only enough to convince Manus to disappear once more. Having saved his strength to focus his awareness, Coir waited for the moment of Manus' return.

When it came, the energy wave washed over Coir. He let it pass, concentrating instead upon its source. All of his Force sense was bent on it, and his mind and body responded as one when the rent opened. Disengaging the twin hilts of his saber staff, he spun to meet Manus wielding a weapon in each hand. Crossed above his head, he caught Manus' blade. With an arcing motion he swept it away with his left and attacked from the right with the other.

Manus was unprepared. The red blade seared through the outer layer of his jacket. Manus grunted from the scorching heat, fell back, and Coir pressed his ambidextrous attack.

Coir would have finished his opponent then, but the pitiful padawan had somehow regained consciousness, found her saber, staggered towards him, and distracted him sufficiently for Manus to dance out of reach. A contemptuous kick sent her flying hard against a column cracking several of her ribs. She fell limp to the floor, but remained conscious, grimacing in pain.

Hanlah watched helplessly as Manus opened a final tear to escape. The inevitable shock struck her like a physical blow. Wrapping her arms protectively around her injured chest, she watched Manus leap through the opening as Coir threw one of his sabers cartwheeling after him.

The boundaries of the gash in space-time met the red plasma blade in mid-flight resulting in a devastating outburst more intense than any previous. Chunks of the ceiling rained down and several pillars toppled to lean against the colonnade’s walls. Cracks and fissures opened in the marble floor, but more astounding, for the first time since Manus employed his Force shattering maneuver, the tear remained open. Through blurry eyes and a dusty haze, Hanlah observed the Sith passing through in pursuit of her master.

Alone, Hanlah groaned as the glowing doorway pulsed, radiating debilitating energy waves. Pinned in place by Coir’s lightsaber, it writhed, straining against the Force like a wounded animal caught in a hunter’s trap. Anyone close and sensitive to the Force, like Hanlah, was paralyzed by it.

Only when the Sith’s weapon disappeared from view could she attempt the arduous task of rising to her feet and recovering her weapon. The portal began to accelerate upward and away as she did. Running after it induced pain and nausea so intense it forced her to her knees. Fighting the dizziness, she rose again, and scrambled up a tipped column to reach the colonnade's broken roof.

Her quarry continued to rise over the deep pit. Already the leap was nearly impossible even when she was at her best, but her injuries caused her no hesitation. Sprinting, she intended to hurl herself into the air to either span the gap and succeed or fail and plunge to her death.

Just a few strides from her launching point, laser fire rained down from two Union fighters appearing over the opposite rim of the mountain's summit. Compelled by instinct to dive aside, Hanlah reactivated her saber and redirected the projectiles back towards their origin. Both craft were hit and spun wildly past her where they crashed into the park-like surroundings and exploded.

The encounter took only a handful of seconds, but when Hanlah relocated the tear, it was far beyond her ability to overtake. Reaching towards it with the Force, she sought to halt its escape or at least divine its nature, but what she sensed was too confusing to comprehend, and her connection with it faded exponentially with the growing distance. Using a small, portable scanner, she took what physical readings she could while watching helplessly as her only connection with her master ascended until finally disappearing into the night. Her analytical mind swarmed with dozens of questions concerning the anomaly.

“ _Where did it lead? Were Olcan or the Sith still alive? Would it would stay open? Was there any hope to locate it ever again?_ ”

Making a silent vow to devote herself to tracking the tear and saving her master, Hanlah remained in the open contemplating her options until the simultaneous emergence of Union soldiers from the warrens beneath the pit and the sound of additional approaching aircraft made her retreat below to the stage of her earlier battle.

The Union was rapidly consolidating their victory leaving her a limited window to escape the planet. Like the enigmatic Sith she had just fought, Hanlah used her cloak to become a shadow and slipped away unobserved.

_________________________________

i Manus uses the Lothal Year Calendar where 3,277 LY = 0 BBY.


	4. Earth

**Suburban Jedi**

Chapter 4 - Earth

The nether-space into which Coir had blindly charged in pursuit of his foe was a confusing dreamscape devoid of familiar physical references. Up and down were meaningless concepts. No solid surface braced his feet, but neither did he fall. Instead, he floated within a nebulous medium offering resistance between the viscosity of air and water. Cloud-like masses confronted him, swirling with ever changing glimpses into places unfamiliar like images in a seer's crystal ball.

His marine enviro-suit, concealed beneath his cloak, activated upon sensing the lack of atmosphere. Bitter cold, similar to the vacuum of space, triggered the extrusion of a protective seal over exposed flesh to retain heat. Flashing readouts appeared in his field of vision warning that he had no more than thirty minutes of life support. Coir silently praised the engineers who had designed his battle gear.

Glancing over his shoulder, he confirmed that the connection between his world and whatever, or wherever, this place was, remained open. His spare lightsaber sparked and crackled within the energetic embrace of Manus' tear. The shadowy foyer of the Forum was visible beyond the colorful pyrotechnics. On the floor, the padawan writhed in agony. When Coir was finished with Manus, he would return to deal with her.

Seeking the Force to facilitate his search for his hidden prey, Coir discovered that the lines of power binding everything in his universe together were, in this bizarre realm, nothing more than dangling strands of a disrupted spider's web. No matter how he applied his mystical acumen, his senses were as limited as any non-Force user.

And yet, a locus of Force power was detectable nearby cajoling him forward like a moth to a flame. Blurred and obscured as that source was by veils of mist, Coir nevertheless surmised it to be Manus. Unwilling to leave his exit gateway unguarded, Coir opted to wait and was soon rewarded for his brief patience.

 

To Manus, this null spaced between all realities was equally strange but familiar enough that he suffered less disorientation than his opponent. Years before, he had tested its physical properties learning how to survive and move within it, searching for the opportune place through which to return to his native universe. Always, the translucent mists had allowed him to peer back into his own world without being seen, but now he gazed in confusion upon a bizarre amalgamation of locales randomly stitched together, none of which matched the Grand Forum. Tentative efforts to open a portal to any of them had failed. He was trapped until he found and corrected the cause.

Coir was his preeminent suspect. A prominent pulsing energy signature somewhere beyond the limits of Manus' vision had to be the Sith. It’s haunting familiarity drew him back the way from which he had drifted. Cautiously, he moved via a combination of swimming motions and force of will until he found his nemesis waiting for him.

"What have you done?" shouted Manus. His voice was distorted into a mechanical echo by his breathing apparatus and the he odd qualities of the surrounding ether. "Remove your saber from the gate. It should not stay open so long. The energy potential has the power to sunder the bonds between universes."

"Creating something so dangerous is typical of you, old friend," sneered Coir. "Reckless experimentation has always been your worst vice. You nearly destroyed the spaceport that time when you stole coaxium and a hyperdrive motivator hoping to increase the performance of your speeder."

"I was a boy then. Now I am a man and quite aware of the powers I control. It is you who have interfered out of ignorance. Remove your saber and let me mend the gate so that we may both return safely to Cabellar."

"Do you take me for a fool? I am also no longer a boy to be tricked by your false promises. I have somehow thwarted your sorcery, trapping you here. You wish to dupe me into being stranded instead."

"You must trust me, old friend," implored Manus. " I guarantee that both of us will leave this space."

"Your guarantee is particularly laughable considering it was from you that I learned not to trust to false friendship. No. The course of action that you propose seems unwise. I can escape if I wish, but you must pass me to get out of this no man's land. Only one of us may leave. The other will be dead."

"You wish to fight with me...here?"

"I do."

"That is unwise. Please reconsider. Forget the past and put aside your animosity towards me for just a moment. The power of this in-between space is beyond comprehension and linked to the creation of the universe. The crystals in our lightsabers interact with and penetrate it, transforming its structure.”

“If you are attempting to frighten me, don’t waste your time.”

“You must Listen. I have found it is dangerous enough to bring my single, Force-attuned ilum crystal. Careless use of it risks releasing unimaginable and uncontrollable energy. By following me and adding your pair of synthetic crystals, you have exponentially magnified the danger. The consequences of a battle could be catastrophic not only us, but to the entire galaxy."

"A risk I find acceptable."

Coir’s insouciance towards a prospect so calamitous shocked Manus.

"Are you mad?”

“Yes, but not in the sense that you mean. Anger fueled by the atrocities you abet have made me strong. Now that you can no longer escape my wrath, victory will be mine.”

"Callan..."

“There is no Callan. I am Coir.”

“Have it your way, Coir. Just listen to me. This is not our reality. The Force...you must realize as do I...it is severely weakened here."

"Perhaps, bu you possess something exuding Force power, and I intend to have it. Whatever allows you to perform your incredible feat goes beyond mere knowledge and will be discoverable upon your lifeless corpse.”

Manus' expression betrayed the truth of Coir's excellent guess.

“Aha! I am right, then. You found some ancient Force amulet or other artifact. When you are dead, I will use this new tool to bring a speedier end to the Jedi. Your only way to stop that is by going through me.”

Screaming his frustration at Coir's intransigence, Manus abandoned patience and reason to fly at him. Their sabers met like colliding stars. Coir was hurled back, having no solid surface upon which to brace. The hilt of his trapped saber prodded his back, and the psychic agony of the tear washed over him.

With his familiar Force power lost, Coir was momentarily disadvantaged. Whatever Manus used to perform his reality bridging trick provided him an effective substitute, but Coir was quickly discovering its power was not for the Jedi's use alone. The canny Sith drew from it also, finding the strength to resist Manus' efforts to drive him through the rent.

Energy of incomprehensible intensity flowed from their bodies and their crossed blades, illuminating their surroundings in violent bursts of crimson and blue. The cloud-like mist within which they were suspended swirled and flowed in response, suffused with rapidly shifting vistas changing and intertwining with dizzying speed. Coalescing beneath them, a swirling, bottomless, black vortex developed tugging them inexorably downward. As the intensity of their struggle increased, so did the pull of the menacing maelstrom.

"Yield before it’s too late," shouted Manus. "You're dooming us both to oblivion."

With just a small additional increment of leverage, Coir reasoned he could overcome Manus and send him alone into the sucking void. Reaching back, he grasped the hilt of his second sword, but upon contact, the flow of power through his body was a surge beyond his mortal comprehension. For an infinitesimally discreet instant, god-like power of creation coursed inside him, but it was not his to control. The twisting tornado of chaos below opened wider, and they fell.

 

Detached from the passage of time, whether an instant or an eternity expired during their vertiginous plunge, neither could discern. No breath passed silent lips or heartbeat stirred in motionless breast. Death's darkness enshrouded but did not claim them. Inanimate, movement and speech became impossible until light abruptly assaulted their eyes, and their remaining deadened senses returned with dizzying intensity.

Moist, green turf lay beneath their supine bodies. Above, lead-gray clouds obscured the sky. A nearby asphalt path meandered alongside a noisy, cobble choked river. Evergreen and deciduous trees surrounded three acres of encircling open space. Light bird song added an incongruous tranquility to their jarring awakening from their disorienting journey.

Their sabers had deactivated during the transition. For a dozen heartbeats, the two combatants lay still, absorbing their new surroundings. Coir was first to scramble to his feet putting distance between himself and Manus, who reacted likewise. Re-igniting their weapons, the plasma streams flared and dimmed randomly. The normal gyroscopic effects that controlled their shape and handling obeyed subtly different rules, causing the hilts to wobble out of balance in their grip.

Though the atmosphere was breathable, the temperature within comfortable bounds, and the flora and fauna unusual but obeying the limits of biological evolution, the reality into which they had been shunted was alien at its most fundamental level. Other than Manus' hidden talisman, the Force was more tenuous than it had been in the nether space. All of Coir's dark side powers abandoned him leaving only his lingering rage towards Manus intact.

It was enough to impel Coir to strike headless of the unsteady performance of his blades. Manus' saber misbehaved with equal impunity, but possessing the only source of Force control allowed him to easily deflect Coir's awkward strikes. Stray loops of plasma arcing out and back upon the ruby streams like solar prominences confounded Coir. With his weapon as likely to kill him as his opponent, the Sith was forced to retreat. Rejoining both hilts, he powered down, and Manus emulated his gesture.

"What is this place?" demanded Coir, momentarily willing to talk rather than fight.

"I don't know."

"Why are our lightsabers so unbalanced?"

Manus Shrugged.

"And what has happened to the Force?"

"I don't know that either."

"There is no limit to your ignorance, is there? You have the only wellspring of Force power. I can sense it on you. Use it to return us to Cabellar."

"How? My lightsaber is no more controllable than yours. I dare not use it again without re-calibration, and there is nothing upon which to initiate the tear if I did."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that the artifact I carry allows me to sever localized sections of the Force fabric and slip behind it temporarily, but that interwoven mesh of energy pervading our galaxy is just not present here. I can't tear a door through something that doesn't exist."

"Bah! There has to be a way. Give me the source and let me try. It is our only link home."

"So you can abandon me instead? No. I don't trust you any more than you trust me."

"Then I shall take it from you."

Instinctively, Coir's fingers moved to re-energize his saber staff. Frustrated by his remembered inability to control the wayward weapon, he hung it from his belt instead. Manus breathed easier thinking his old friend realized the folly of conflict until Coir reached beneath his cloak to draw forth a metal bladed knife. The archaic weapon was carried by Union Navy marines as a standard issue, all-purpose tool of survival. Coir was now twice grateful towards the designers of his battle gear.

Manus had no equivalent spare weapon, but he did possess the silver handled, collapsible cane that accompanied his trade uniform. When Coir lunged, Manus extended it to its full length, neatly parrying the smaller, deadlier weapon. Lighting swipes with the walking aid-turned sword nearly caught the side of Coir's head, but the Sith ducked and deflected it with his free arm while closing with Manus to counter his reach.

A middle-aged male jogger and a young couple walking a dog paused briefly upon entering opposite ends of the clearing. Assuming that the oddly dressed combatants were practicing some form of mock combat cosplay, they stared out of curiosity. When Manus struck Coir on the shoulder with his cane and Coir returned the insult by slashing Manus’ cheek leaving a superficial cut oozing blood, there was no doubt as to the deadly intent of their battle, and three emergency calls went out to the police.

By the time two uniformed patrol officers arrived on foot a few minutes later, Coir had pinned Manus to the ground, the tip of his knife a hair's width from the Jedi's throat.

"Drop your weapon and lie face down!" ordered the first cop as both drew their pistols.

Coir could not understand a word of their language. Within his enviro-suit was a crude interpreter module that would eventually begin to decode the local dialect given time and context, but for the moment, only their belligerent and hostile intent was discernible.

Reacting to the new threat, Coir rolled away from Manus and sprang to his feet brandishing the knife in one hand. He recognized instantly that the intruders held weapons of some primitive sort. Both were aimed at him. More unintelligible commands we're shouted.

Unused to yielding to the demands of others, especially non-Force users, and forgetting the loss of his dark side power, Coir confidently marched towards his new opponents intending to frighten them away or kill them if they were to stupid to flee.

Both officers fired simultaneously, and Coir realized his mistake. His senses were augmented enough to observe the projectiles converging towards him in slow motion horror, but he was unable to deflect either or dodge both. Managing to siphon what speed he could from Manus' magic talisman, he avoided one bullet, but the other struck his chest. The impact threw him backward onto the ground. Blood seeped from his wound, and he slipped into shock. Encroaching darkness nullified his awareness.

Even though he and Callan had become mortal enemies, to watch his one-time friend murdered was a grievous blow. Manus screamed his outrage drawing the cops' attention. Their weapons turned towards him, so he collapsed his cane and hung it from his belt before holding his empty hands in the air. The blue uniformed adversaries continued to shout commands clearly demanding him to surrender. Manus had no intention of becoming their prisoner and began developing a plan to escape.

His fight with Coir had ended within a few yards of a large, solitary oak possessing a wide trunk and heavy, spreading branches. With inhuman speed, Manus sprinted to hide behind its bulk. Shots rang out, but they missed the hyper-accelerated Jedi, who reached the temporary safety offered by the tree.

Immediately, the cops moved to encircle him, leaving Manus with no option but to unleash the dangerous plasma stream of his erratic lightsaber. Swinging the untamed blade in a ragged arc through the massive bole toppled the arboreal giant onto the astonished police. Unhurt, they were nevertheless temporarily pinned beneath its leaf covered branches.

Hurrying back to Coir’s side, Manus checked for signs of life, but a wild shot zipped past his ear, interrupting his brief assessment during which he had detected neither breath nor pulse. One of the hostile strangers was extricating himself from beneath the tree. Assuming that Coir was dead, Manus chose to flee. The clap of additional weapons fire rang in his ears as he escaped through the nearby woods.

A steep climb up a wooded bluff led to a neighborhood of wood sided houses, landscaped yards, and paved streets. The materials and nature of the surrounding construction was primitive. Vehicles on four wheels rode the black surface of the streets. In the far distance, across a broad valley, he spied a series of fixed wing craft lifting into the air from a flat topped ridge to slowly climb and soar away. No evidence of spaceflight or hover technology could he see. The weapons that had killed Callan were simple combustion driven slug throwers suggesting a society struggling out of technological barbarism.

Reflecting upon the agents of his old friend’s death made Manus pause. Despite the evil thing Callan had become, he was once a good kid. A spark of redemption had smoldered within him; Manus was certain of that. Regret for the lost opportunity to bring him back from the dark side deepened his already somber mood.

Wailing sirens interrupted his melancholic thoughts, turning them instead towards survival. The pair upon which he had felled the tree were obviously some form of law enforcement. Three other witnesses had been present to observe Manus’ unconventional escape. A manhunt was no doubt already in progress, and Manus’ unique appearance was too conspicuous to go unnoticed for long. Assessing his options and his needs, Manus decided that a way to blend in and move among the locals was his first priority.

He observed the few pedestrians walking nearby, noting the style of their garments. They, in turn stared at him, obviously registering the unusual manner in which he was attired. One offered a perfunctory, unintelligible greeting as he passed, receiving a silent, uncomprehending nod from Manus in return. Manus considered stealing the man’s clothes, but was reluctant to turn to crime, considering it a violation of his Jedi teachings.

Hanlah's auto-interpreter, an invaluable invention for navigating the myriad languages of the Outer Rim, was already working to decipher the local speech based upon the input it had received thus far. More verbal interaction would increase its fluency, a necessary first step towards obtaining replacement clothes and other goals such as food and shelter, so Manus walked towards what looked like an urban center of low brick buildings despite the increased risk of identification and capture it posed.

Avoiding the busiest streets, and lingering near public doorways and alleys that offered him means of rapid escape, he spent several hours eavesdropping on conversations until he was comfortable he was fluent enough to be understood by the locals. In his wanderings, he discovered a covered platform where numerous people were standing adjacent to a set of parallel rails set on wooden timbers. The archaic construction stretched into the distance in both directions as an unwavering straight line. Correctly deducing it to be some means of public transportation that would allow him to put some distance between himself and his pursuers, Manus waited out of sight beside a bank of tall dispensers of packaged food items and drinks.

His attempt to be inconspicuous failed when a foursome of teenagers using the vending machines openly gaped at him with amusement. The three boys and one girl whispered among themselves. The tallest, dark skinned male was goaded by the others into confronting Manus.

"Wow! That's an awesome cosplay, dude. You goin' for steampunk or cyberpunk? Either way, that’ll be a hit at Comic Con."

Assuming at first that he was being ridiculed, Manus was inclined to ignore them, but the boy's tone suggested admiration towards his trade uniform. The words 'cosplay' and 'Comic Con' were indecipherable by his interpreter, but he sensed an opportunity for a trade.

"You like this?" asked Manus pinching at his jacket's lapels for emphasis.

Upon hearing Manus' odd accent, the teen became apologetic.

"Oh, sorry, man. I didn't realize you was a foreigner. Ha. Ha," he laughed nervously as the other teens grinned and sniggered over his distress. "My bad about your clothes. Where you from?"

"Far, far away,” answered Manus. “These clothes are uncommon there also."

"That's cool. Well, I still say that foreign suit’ll get attention at Comic Con. That's where we're goin'."

The three other teens nodded in unison, enthusiastic over the prospect.

"That's high quality shit," added the girl, who in contrast to the two short, pale-skinned boys, was also dark hued, sporting a ragged mop of multi-colored hair in tangled braids. She clung possessively to the leader's arm. Her ears were oddly shaped, ending in tall points at the top like a Lasat’s. Manus mistook her for a separate species until he realized she was wearing poorly concealed prosthetics.

Too much unfamiliar slang in their speech prevented full comprehension of her compliment, but Manus got the general idea. His uniform came with another accessory besides the cane. A foldable top hat that he never wore was concealed in his vest pocket. Retrieving it, he popped it open with a flourish and placed it on the lead boy's neatly shaved head.

"I think this looks better on you."

Smiling, the boy checked his reflection in the glass front of the soda machine while his comrades gaped.

"Nice, but what do you mean on me?"

"I mean an even trade. Your clothes for mine."

"Are you serious? That’s not a fair deal. My crummy jeans, hoodie, and t-shirt don’t equal your shit."

"Shut up and take it, dude," urged the acne scarred, paler of his two buddies. "You'll look sick in that."

"Do you want it or not?" urged Manus. "I can't stay here talking all day."

"Well, yeah, but I feel like I'm ripping you off."

"In that case, give me whatever in addition you think is fair. I could use some money to buy something to eat and whatever fare is required to travel on this...?"

"Train?"

"Yes. Train."

"Okay. Are you throwin' in the boots?"

"Yes. I like your shoes better."

"What about that cylinder on your belt?"

"Not that. The clothes were given to me, but that I made myself. You may have this cane, though."

With a smooth snick, the cane extended to its full length. Manus twirled it enticingly before handing it to the entranced boy.

"Cool,” he exclaimed dazzled by the deal. “Let's do it."

They exchanged clothes in the public restroom. After taking up a collection from his admiring friends, the kid handed Manus a wad of paper and coins.

"That's about thirty bucks. Best we can do."

Unable to read the symbols, Manus trusted his estimate.

"Is this enough to ride the train?"

"Plenty. Here. I'll show you how to get a ticket."

 

Manus rode past a few stops exiting the clumsy conveyance at a random location similar in character to where he had boarded. Hungry, he approached a small, corner, glass-fronted building where a steady stream of patrons acquired consumables to eat and drink on the go. Hungry, he went inside. Unable to read the symbols on the packaging, he avoided items whose contents he could not visually confirm.

A large display case held prepared food items in clear wrappings. There was also a tall, glass box on the counter containing sticks of cured meat slowly rotating on metal drums. Some instinct made him cringe at the latter, and select instead something made with what appeared to be slices of meat, green plant matter, and something orange, all between two squares of bread.

"What do you call this?" asked Manus after placing his money on the counter for the proprietor to sort through and make change.

"Turkey and cheese," he answered in a curiously lilting, sing-song accent.

Hanlah's interpreter managed to decipher cheese as a fermented lactation product. That was obviously the little orange triangles. Whether the meat or the green leaves were turkey remained a mystery. It was passable fare, satisfying his hunger, but Manus hoped it was not representative of the best this world had to offer. If it was, his stay would be miserable indeed.

Eating as he strolled along the city streets, Hanlah's interpreter had begun to decipher script, so Manus made an effort to expose it to all the writing he could find. Fortunately, signs were everywhere. He retrieved discarded magazines and accepted advertising fliers handed to him by persistent vendors.

At one busy intersection near a high speed roadway, he found a flat rectangle of stiff, brown fibrous material upon which someone had scrawled a message. As he puzzled over its meaning, a roofless version of one of the toxic fume belching vehicles stopped next to him. Its driver, a middle-aged woman, who gazed at Manus approvingly, held out a piece of paper that he now recognized as money.

"You're pretty handsome and well groomed compared to most panhandlers," she said.

"Thank you," responded Manus perplexed by her gift and the sultry nature of her comment.

"Ooh, and a sexy accent, too. Need a ride somewhere?"

"Uh, no. Thank you again."

"Suit yourself," she said as the traffic light turned green and she drove away.

 

As darkness fell and it began to rain, Manus regretted rejecting the woman's offer. Though he was uninterested in her the way she was no doubt interested in him, the brief liaison likely would have resulted in a place to shelter for the night.

Public buildings and businesses closed one by one until Manus' options to escape the cold, damp weather dwindled. Observing several people huddled against buildings on the hard concrete, he realized he was not the only one lacking lodgings, but he was not so desperate as to lay exposed where the police might find him.

The few businesses remaining open past midnight were food shops, vehicle fueling stations, and a not unexpected universal constant catering to a need common to many sentient species. Though this new world, perhaps even the entire universe, was alien, some things integral to the very nature of biological intelligence never varied. The need to escape one’s own awareness regarding the bleakness of existence was as prevalent and familiar here as in Manus' own galaxy. Bar, saloon, cantina, pub, alehouse; they went by many names but all served the same purpose. Mood altering drinks, games, and entertainment late into the night were available to all comers with money to pay their tabs.

Finding such an establishment proved easy. Manus only had to look for garishly bright colored lights advertising brands of liquor on shabby, windowless storefronts.

Outside one disreputable looking establishment, a row of single-rider vehicles reminiscent of speeder bikes but with two wheels, one front and one back, were lined up in a row. A pair of men and one woman stood under a covered porch exhaling draughts of smoke derived from small, white, burning cylinders. Their jackets sported garish glyphs and images of skulls, flames, and predatory birds with their talons extended. The trio reeked of sweat, old animal leather, and the noxious vapors they exhaled after each drag on their smoldering sticks.

The female smiled sardonically after appraising Manus' athletic build and made a curious whistling call. The two men glared with unmistakable hostility.

" _Indeed_ ," thought Manus. " _Some things never change._ "

Ignoring the smokers, Manus entered the bar. The trailing mockery of the woman's raucous laughter was masked by loud music originating from a colorful, round-topped machine. The words of the singer, if Manus dared call him that, were nearly unintelligible. Based on what little he could discern of the tune’s lyrics, it was a lament, perhaps regarding love gone bad. Another familiar theme.

More than a dozen people occupied the dimly lit interior. Other than an olive complexioned man with curly black hair standing behind the bar and a loner occupying a corner booth with his head in his hands despairing over an empty glass, the remaining twelve we're attired similarly to the loiterers outside. All of the leather clad bikers eyed him with distrust.

Three were throwing small objects with stabilizing feathers and needle like points at a round board on the wall. The target had numbers encircling its rim and partitioned pie-like slices radiating away from its red center. Two men moved around a large green-topped table holding long, slender sticks they used to strike a white ball, impelling it to collide with colored balls. When one of the latter went into a hole along the outer rim of the table, the onlookers made sounds of approval or disappointment as money was exchanged. Drinks were guzzled from tall glasses and bottles while egging on the competitors.

Manus approached the bar. Unlike his patrons, the proprietor beamed a friendly smile.

"What'll it be, buddy?"

Manus knew nothing of the names of alcoholic beverages, but having read the room, he was developing an idea to improve his fortune.

"What's he drinking?" asked Manus nodding his head towards the solitary sulking patron.

"Him? Whiskey. Why?"

"Two whiskeys, then."

Manus placed a bill with a portrait of a high browed, wavy haired gentleman on the counter. He had learned enough about money to divine it was a twenty and more than enough for the drinks. The bartender hesitated before taking it, but not out of concern for it's adequacy to cover the expenses. He leaned over the bar instead speaking in a low, confidential voice.

"I don't recommend you try a pickup in here, fella. This crowd's pretty intolerant and prone to irrational violence if you know what I’m sayin’."

"Pickup? What do you mean by that?"

"Hey. Don't get upset. I'm just the friendly messenger. I'm cool with whatever floats your personal boat. You go for other guys, sure why not? I'm just trying to help you stay out of trouble."

"Ah. Your concern is misplaced. This is nothing like that. It's a business deal."

"Oh. Ha. Ha. I guess I jumped to conclusions. My bad, man.”

The abashed server pushed the bill back to Manus accompanied by two small glasses filled with an amber liquid.

"On the house. No hard feelings?"

"Thank you, and certainly not. It was an honest and well intended mistake."

The bartender’s affable smile vanished, replace by a stern scowl.

“Just make sure all goods are exchanged outside and preferably off this property. I don't want trouble with the narcs."

Manus’ interpreter failed him on the bartender’s last word, but context suggested a narc was a cop of some variety.

“No goods. Just information. I promise.”

Carrying the twin shot glasses to the his target’s table, Manus sat down, set one in front of himself and the other before the miserable looking occupant of the opposite bench. The sound of the tumbler sliding across the wood surface roused him from his petulant brooding. Bloodshot brown eyes beneath a wavy mop of black hair stared back in puzzlement. Though he looked weary, long, delicate fingers drummed the table's edge belying a reserve of restless energy.

“You seem to be in need of a drink," began Manus, "and I am in need of information. Care for a trade?”

Curious, but suspicious, the stranger responded obliquely, “Depends on what kind of information.”

“Nothing nefarious, I assure you. Explain the rules of the two games the others are playing, and you may have one of these drinks."

"What? You've never played darts or pool before?"

"We have similar games of skill in my...homeland, but the rules are not always the same everywhere, now are they?"

"I suppose not. Where are you from anyway? You've got the strangest accent I've ever heard. Is that Russian, Estonian, Romanian?"

"Somewhere like that. I am new to this place, certainly, but I have traveled much."

"A man of the world, eh?"

"Sure. If you say so."

"Well, so am I. The name's Jared, by the way, Jared Lorcis."

"Mine's Manus Olcan."

"Olcan? That sounds Viking. I bet you're Norwegian. No? Irish?"

"The rules?" Manus asked again pushing the drink towards Jared, who greedily accepted it.

"Thanks. For this, I can explain."

The rules of both games were simple enough to understand. Advantaged with natural skill and the limited access to the Force provided by the ancient amulet hidden beneath his clothes, Manus was confident he could outperform ordinary human players regardless of their proficiency. Thanking his benefactor, he slid his untouched drink towards Jared, and excused himself.

Causally, Manus sauntered past the pool table towards the dart board. After watching several rounds in silence, he commented aloud just as two players finished their match.

"This seems like a very easy game. I am surprised it took you so many throws to finish."

A short, rotund inebriate standing next to Manus drained the contents of the bottle from which he was drinking then belched loudly.

"You think you can do better, dickhead?" he asked, clearly taking offense as Manus hoped he would.

"I am certain that I can."

The larger of the two dart throwers, standing a head taller than Manus and disfigured by an ugly scar across his bald, tattooed head, held out three blue feathered darts towards the Jedi.

"In America, we put our money where our mouths are. Put up or shut up, foreigner."

Manus accepted the projectiles, carefully rolling them with his fingers to gauge their weight and shape and connect them to his mind via the Force.

"I have limited funds, but am willing to gamble what I have against you. Twenty dollars." Manus waved the bill that the bartender had refused. "Is that sufficient to play?"

"A baby stake, but I'll take your money."

The crowd of ruffians laughed and gathered around. Even the pool players paused to observe.

Big Baldy, as Manus secretly identified his opponent, went first, and they alternated throws. Winning every round would have been no effort for Manus, but he desired to fleece the crowd completely by enticing as many gullible fools as possible to surrender their money. Deliberately placing his shots so that he narrowly beat Baldy in six out of seven games, Manus soon acquired a sizable stake.

Baldy gave up in disgust, snatching a beer from one of his buddies to console himself. Two more competitors, unable to resist Manus’ growing pile of cash, also lost everything they had.

"I seem to be having a lucky night," declared Manus, "and I am definitely improving with practice. Is anyone else interested in losing tonight?"

A lanky, disheveled member of the biker gang stood up from where he had been reclining on a padded bench as if asleep. Sporting a long ponytail and wearing wire rimmed glasses, his narrow face was obscured by an unkempt beard and a wild mane of brown hair streaked with gray. Strolling casually towards the dart board, he smiled and patted the brooding Baldy on the shoulder.

"Don't sweat it, Den. I'll break this fucker and get it all back. Then drinks will be on me."

Manus had not witnessed Ponytail play and scrutinized his new opponent's mannerisms and movements to gauge his proficiency. As if muddled by drink, the challenger staggered to the board to retrieve both sets of darts. With incongruous ease he snatched all six and tossed Manus' set with underhanded nonchalance to land point down on a nearby tabletop in a perfect line. How much of Ponytail’s behavior was feigned and how much was real, Manus could not tell, but he knew when a fellow hustler was calling his bluff.

"How about I match all you got, and the best three out of five wins the pot?" asked Ponytail, slapping a wad of bills on the table next to Manus’ winnings.

"Fair enough,” agreed Manus. “You go first."

Ponytail shrugged and, without glancing at the board or even appearing to aim, lobbed a dart nimbly into the center circle. Manus stepped up and mimicked his shot with similar casual indifference. Ponytail’s smirk never faltered, but his assessment of the Jedi’s skill altered subtly. Each successive throw was conducted with more earnest concentration than its predecessor.

Equally matched, two victories were soon awarded to each player. Convinced their champion was poised to defeat the hated outsider, the audience cheered for Ponytail and jeered his rival. Manus couldn’t fault their exuberance. Unlike the game with Baldy, the Jedi had not willingly relinquished either set. Ponytail was testing the limits of his Force powers. The final game would determine whether Manus had the funds to rent warm, dry lodgings or if he spent the night huddled outside in the rain. His resolve faltered until Jared lent his support.

“Two to one against the foreigner,” Jared announced to a stunned silence. “Put up or shut up. You said that earlier. Now you have the chance to live by your words. I’ll double whatever you place against the stranger. Any takers?”

“What are you doing?” asked Manus quietly to his unwelcome ally as half the onlookers put hundreds of dollars against his generous odds. “This is none of your affair, and I don’t want you to lose so much because of me.”

“It’s a free country, and I’m a big boy. My money is mine to risk as I please. Besides, I have a good feeling about you. Mystery surrounds you like a magical aura, and that intrigues me, professionally.”

“Hmm. Perhaps there is some truth to that, but there is no guarantee magic ticks will be enough.”

“Life is never certain, but that opens the door to opportunities, right?”

“Opportunities?”

“Just win this set, okay? Worry about the future when it comes.”

Years of Jedi training had taught Manus when and how to focus. He didn’t need Jared’s reminder, and drew upon all of his skill to match Ponytail’s string of perfect throws, the last of which ended in the bullseye along with two of Manus’ darts. No room in the center remained, and that was precisely where he needed to place his final dart just to tie his opponent.

The throng openly expressed their certainty that the foreigner was beat by demanding that Manus cede the battle and that he and Jared pay their debts.

“Give the man a chance!” shouted Jared over the din. “This ain’t over ‘til the fat lady sings,” he added with conviction arising from an irrational intuition about Manus.

Jared may have sensed it, but what he and the other Earthlings could not rationally factor into their assessment of the possible versus the impossible was the Force. Beyond their comprehension, it was the thumb tipping the scales of fate in Manus’ favor, though the feat he was about to attempt using its influence had, at best, even odds of success.

Manipulating a thrown object was an easy trick for the most novice padawan, but on Earth it required immense concentration even for a knight of Manus’ skill. With the Force so feeble, he could not control both the trajectory of his small missile’s flight and manipulate one of his opponent’s embedded darts, so he trusted in his dexterity and lent his mental powers to deal with the latter.

Fortunately, his aim was true. Milliseconds before his dart struck red, one of Ponytail's ejected. The clattering sound when it hit the floor was amplified within the stunned silence that followed.

Groans and curses soon filled the air drowning out Jared’s jubilant applause. The surly losers muttered about chicanery and fraud. To his credit, Ponytail was gracious in defeat.

"You're a god-damned Robin Hood,” he exclaimed. “Can’t begin to explain how you did that, but...well played."

Manus had no idea who Robin Hood was, but he was grateful for Ponytail’s tacit acceptance of the result. Jared gleefully began collecting on his bold wager. Funds aplenty to facilitate Manus’ survival in this strange world waited on the small table he had reserved for his winnings. Reaching out to collect the pile of bills, Manus’ hand was pinned beneath Baldy's massive fist.

"Not so fast, motherfucker. You may be an ace with darts, but you ain't leaving until you put some money down at pool."

Manus was in no mood for additional contests, but he also wished to avoid a fight if possible. More games meant more fools to fleece and more resources to make his hopefully brief stay on Earth less unpleasant. Extracting his hand, he left the money in place.

"If you insist. Who wishes to match this pot?"

A fat, late-middle aged man stepped forward. An absurdly bushy mustache and sideburns like scrub brushes jutted from his jowly cheeks.

"Grab a cue and show me what you've got," he challenged.

"Put down your stake first," insisted Manus.

"Don't you trust me?"

"No more than you trust me."

"Can't argue with that seein' how you is a hustler."

"I have never played either of these games before, but given your assumption that I have, aren't you taking a desperate gamble after how badly your friends just lost a darts?"

Sideburns laughed.

“You're the one bein' hustled now," he added throwing a handful of bills on the now rather large pile. "I played the pro circuit with the best of the best. Still know all the top players, nationally and internationally. You ain't one of 'em."

A random biker racked the balls, setting up the match.

"One game. Winner takes all,” declared Sideburns. “Agreed?"

"Bold and risky, but sure,” said Manus through a deliberate yawn. “I tire of this company and would like to move on."

Sideburns produced a coin, holding it balanced between his right thumb and forefinger. Flipping it into the air, he called out, "Heads or tails?"

Unfamiliar with the expression, Manus nevertheless knew the coin had a portrait on one side. Choosing heads and manipulating the coin's flight so the eagle landed face up, he ensured he lost the toss and gained the opportunity to gauge his opponent's skill.

Sporting a wicked grin of triumph, Sideburns proceeded to break and clear the table. He would have executed a sweep if Manus had not used the Force to slow his last ball enough that it stopped a few scant millimeters from its intended pocket. Sideburns and the rest of the churlish crowd growled like one malevolent beast, certain that some trick had been used. They were justified, of course, but lacked any means to prove their belief.

To win, Manus was now required to pot every one of his balls in one turn without accidentally putting any of his opponent’s in the pocket. Force magic was his only salvation, allowing him to adjust the trajectories of shots that otherwise would have gone awry. Shouts of astounded surprise and disbelief accompanied the subtle, but still unnatural, curves of Manus' near fouls.

A deafening clamor of disapproval built after he potted the eight ball for the winning play.

“Cheat! Fraud! He’s a hustler,” and less savory accusations were screamed.

The crowd had been ugly from the onset, but now they were just plain savage. A riot seemed inevitable. Manus moved to collect his winnings and leave, but Baldy placed himself stubbornly between Manus and his prize.

“I don’t know how you did it, but you used some dirty trick. You leave that money where it is, and we may just let you walk out of here.”

The others began to close in, supporting Baldy’s threat. Jared ceased demanding payment for his wager and cowered next to Manus.

“What do we do now, friend?”

Exhibiting no more concern for his safety than a statue, Manus answered Jared in a grim voice loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear.

“I do not yield what is rightfully mine to inconsequential threats delivered by fools lacking the mastery to enforce them.”

“There’s a dozen of us,” declared Baldy. His anger expressed via the straining tendons on his neck, “And I can take you all by myself, so you’re the fool. Now git outta here or I’ll pound you flat, little man.”

Though Jedi teachings urged Manus to seek a peaceful solution, his ability to influence minds to calm the escalating anger of the crowd was severely curtailed in this reality. Exhaustion, exasperation, and resentment towards this alien world left him irascible and unwilling to take the rigorous high road. The easier path to a comfortable night’s rest lay through physical persuasion. Delivering some frontier justice to a gang of bullies promised Manus a satisfying release for his rancor.

"You are in my way. Move or be moved," demanded Manus.

Baldy stood firm. A battle hungry smirk creased his ugly face. Manus returned his grin with a smug smile of his own and feigned an attempt to push the brute aside. The elementary maneuver provoked Baldy’s predictable reaction. A wild punch sailed harmlessly past Manus’ head.

A smidgen of leverage combined with a strategic placement of the Jedi’s foot sent Baldy sprawling forward into the arms of two of his compatriots. All three collapsed ungracefully to the floor.

With sincere insouciance, Manus began collecting and counting his winnings, denying his prone opponent the dignity of a backwards glance.

"Thank you for doing the honorable thing by moving aside," said Manus over his shoulder. "Though grovelling on the floor in apology is unnecessary. I have the goodness to forgive your temporary lapse in manners."

When the enraged behemoth heaved himself upright, snarled his primitive fury, and charged, a perfunctory kick by Manus sent a chair skidding into his path. Once again, the clumsy giant found himself on his face.

"You seem incapable of learning, friend. No one touches me unless I allow it."

Jared laughed, as did Ponytail, who was quickly censured by the rest of the gang. Sharing Baldy's wrath, the group of thugs armed themselves with cue sticks, knives, and darts. One donned a pair of brass knuckles. Moving to surround the irritating stranger, they formed a semi-circle around their leader, who rose with deliberate leisure to his full height determined to salvage his aggrieved dignity.

"Stay back!” he shouted to his friends. "He's mine." To Manus, he added, "You are so dead."

"Unlikely. Others have tried and failed to kill me today, and at least one was far more competent than you."

Despite his urge to destroy his tormentor, Baldy approached Manus slowly, wary of his tricks. Jared balked at the dangerous odds and dropped to the floor, crawling under the pool table. Even Manus began a slow retreat until he was backed against Jared’s hiding spot.

Satisfied his prey was trapped, Baldy threw two fast and powerful haymakers. Neither connected with the maddeningly nimble Jedi. Returning the assault with rapid jabs to the solar plexus, Manus drove the surprised goon back. Several allies of the beleaguered Baldy attempted to rush Manus from the sides.

Escaping with a series of back-flips, the Jedi landed on the pool table, flipped a cue in the air with his toe, caught it in his right hand, and broke it over his knee. Baldy was hurling himself forward again. Manus jabbed the blunt end of one stick into the center of his forehead, stunning him before mercilessly pounding his temples until he collapsed into a senseless heap.

"One down, eleven to go,” taunted Manus as he dropped the bloody sticks on the green felt and leapt to the floor. “Please don't tell me he was the best of you. I'm just getting warmed up."

Several darts were hurled at him in response. Snatching them from the air and redirecting them back towards their source, the tips pierced the thrower’s thighs perilously close to their genitals. Both men howled in pain and staggered backwards.

"I didn't have to miss," laughed Manus.

Observing the Jedi’s adroit maneuvers from his shelter, Jared was impressed. In all his professional career, he had never witnessed anyone exhibiting such extraordinary physical finesse. Eager for a better vantage to observe the stranger in action, he crawled out from under the table and crouched behind it.

Two knife wielding members of the gang were attempting to take advantage of Manus’ distraction with the darts. Jared hefted a pool cue to help defend his new friend, but the Jedi’s heightened senses detected their surreptitious movements.

"Don’t be frightened,” urged Manus of his latest assailants. “I’m unarmed."

Having failed to surprise their foe, the pair moved to flank him. Their goal was to attack as one, but what appeared to ordinary humans with normal reflexes as a highly coordinated, synchronous assault, was to the Force-enhanced Jedi two distinct temporal events. Dealing first with the faster of the pair, Manus retrieved the larger of the two halves of the broken cue and interposed the thicker, butt end between himself and his adversary's knife. The tip of the blade impaled itself upon the stick end, Manus wrenched the weapon out of the surprised attacker’s hand, and swung the broken cue in a downward arc flicking the captured weapon unerringly to embed in the center of the dartboard. A slight adjustment of trajectory brought the baton down upon the wrist of the second assailant, forcing him to involuntarily release his grip on his blade. A few rapid raps to their heads united the confounded duo with Baldy in an unconscious pile.

Realizing the danger of individual assaults, the remainder charged en masse. Manus became a whirling dervish, spinning, leaping, punching, kicking, and tripping his opponents faster than they could rush in to fill the gaps left behind by their fallen comrades. During the Jedi’s one-man blitzkrieg, Ponytail crept towards the bar. Drawing a pistol hidden in the small of his back, he waited for a clear field of fire. The opportunity presented itself with surprising rapidity as Manus soon stood alone among a field of groaning enemies struggling to stay upright.

Ever alert, Manus perceived the subtle, but now hauntingly familiar click of the slug thrower’s mechanical tumbler just before the firing pin struck. The fresh and painful lesson of Callan’s fatal mistake trying to control the bullets from a similar weapon inspired Manus to track the projectile instead. Turning his head slightly allowed it to pass within millimeters of his skull. Dodging two more shots, Manus sought cover behind an overturned table.

The fourth round was interrupted by a bottle, swung from behind, that struck Ponytail at the base of his skull. The stunned shooter’s eyes rolled back in his head, and his knees buckled. Before Ponytail joined his dazed companions on the floor, the bartender placed the half-full fifth of whiskey back on the counter and snatched the gun from gunman's limp fingers.

“You idiots want to beat each other senseless, go ahead, but anyone else who tries to murder someone in my bar is leaving in a body bag,” he warned while pointing the gun at each of the remaining bikers in turn. “That includes knives, shivs, or anything else designed to kill.”

Several switch blades, a length of chain, and the pair of brass knuckles were hastily dropped and kicked away. Manus discarded his improvised club satisfied that even his half-witted opponents weren’t stupid enough to disobey the bartender's edict.

Placing the pistol beneath the bar for easy retrieval, the bar’s owner resumed polishing beer glasses with a cloth.

“You may proceed,” he added as an afterthought.

Five bruised and battered bikers were still standing and willing to challenge the unscathed Jedi. Jared emerged from his sanctuary emboldened by his newfound friend's flare for fighting and theatrics. Perching upon the pool table, he acquired a front row seat for what he fully expected to be the grand finale. He was not disappointed.

Again, the clumsy combatants tried to overwhelm the foreigner with numbers, but they could neither catch nor corral a foe who possessed the speed of a cheetah, the strength of a jaguar, and the ability to leap like a mountain lion. Manus moved among them delivering blows with his fists, feet, and elbows while evading their maladroit strikes and ineffective attempts to bull rush him. Two more joined the heap atop Baldy, leaving a dispirited trio rubbing sore jaws, massaging bruised limbs, and wiping blood from shattered noses. Manus paused his dizzying assault by leaping atop the pool table.

"Had enough?" he mocked, deliberately goading his reluctant foes into one final assault.

Hefting chairs, they came at Manus hungry for revenge.

"Some ammunition please," asked Manus of Jared, who in response, lobbed three billiard balls upward one at a time. Snatching each deftly from the air, Manus incorporated them into a three ball cascade.

It was a bizarre tableau; a juggling Jedi surrounded by enemies intent on beating him to death with furniture. The bikers halted their advance trying to make sense of Manus’ new game. The delay was unneeded, but the Jedi appreciated the opportunity to add some elan to his final volley and to show off for his audience.

One by one, he tossed each ball high in the air, and spun is body in a series of pirouette-like turns at the end of which he slapped a ball with either his palm or his foot. Guiding the missiles with the Force, he weaved them through and around chair legs to strike with unerring accuracy in the center of each of his opponent's foreheads. Stunned by the impact, their insensate bodies collapsed like marionettes with their strings cut, and the fight was over.

"That was...well...I don't know...," sputtered Jared in the post-battle silence. "There are no words to describe...where did you learn to do all that? Surely you have professional training."

"You ask a lot of questions, friend," said Manus as he collected his winnings into a neatly stacked the pile of greenbacks that he then rolled into a cylinder to stuff in his pocket. "Would answering them ever satisfy or silence you?"

"Probably not," admitted Jared with good humor. "I'm a curious guy, but you don't have to explain any thing to me now. There can be plenty of time for that later."

"Later?" wondered Manus. "What do mean by later?"

"Oh. Ha. Ha. I'm getting ahead of myself, I'm so excited. You see, I'm an entertainer; part of a suddenly defunct magic act that incorporates stunts for a unique bit of flare."

"So?” answered Manus walking towards the bar. “How does this concern me?”

Jared dutifully followed his prospect.

"My partner...previous partner...quit on me. He met some chick, decided he needed to settle down in one place, and announced that he was through. All our dreams and hard work gone, just like that."

Manus laid two one hundred dollar bills on the counter.

"For the disturbance, the damage, and the mess,” he explained to the bartender.

"Thanks, but you only broke one cue stick. And you got most of ‘em into a single pile. Tidiest barroom brawl I’ve ever seen."

"That's my point," interjected Jared. "This guy isn’t just a martial arts expert, he’s a natural stuntman and stage magician. I've never seen anyone send darts and balls through the air to curve and fly like that. He defies physics. Audiences will love him."

"I think you're right," agreed the barkeep, "but you don't need to convince me. You need to convince him," he added pointing towards the departing Jedi's back.

"What?” Jared turned in time to see the door close behind Manus. “Wait!"

Chasing after the indifferent Jedi, Jared caught him outside. The three smokers were still on the porch, but they had moved on to a more intoxicating habit unaware of the fate of the rest of their gang.

"Listen. I'm a good judge of people's needs,” argued Jared, “and I can tell you are in need of employment and possibly wishing to get away from local trouble."

Manus' brow furrowed, and he paused at the roof's dripping eave reluctant to venture into the rain without a clear destination.

"You intuit much, Mr. Lorcis. Perhaps too much. Are you not afraid of me?"

"Honestly? Yes, but listen. I have a proposal that will benefit us both."

Harboring only minor interest in the Earthling's plaintive plea, Manus was willing to tolerate his entreaty only until the rain diminished or he was too irritated to care about getting wet.

"Speak it then."

"Become my partner and tour with me! We can make a fortune if we do this right."

"That is your proposal? Never. I am a...a...you have no equivalent in your tongue for what I am, but I can assure you that I am not an entertainer, and I have problems of my own to solve."

"Clearly those problems include a place to stay? Troubles with the law? Lack of income perhaps? No green card or other papers allowing you to be here? Am I getting close?"

The Jedi’s deepening scowl proved to Jared the veracity of his guesses, encouraging him to persist despite the danger.

"I can help with all of that. Good paying gigs, decent accommodations, plenty of travel, a change of identity, papers allowing you to work and travel in this country? Does any of that appeal?"

Much of it did. Manus was lost, and Jared seemed a useful and enthusiastic guide to navigate the perils of this world until a way could be found to return to his own universe. Performing for stupefied masses at the expense of his dignity seemed a small concession to get back on track to a seat on the Jedi High Council.

"Very well, partner.” Manus stepped into the unrelenting rain forcing Jared to hurry after him. “Find me some place safe to sleep, and tomorrow we can discuss the particulars of how we can both help each other."

"But I can't wait until the morning," whined Jared. "My imagination is exploding with ideas to transform my previous act into something monumental."

Too full of nervous energy to contain himself, Jared hounded Manus with ideas all the way to his small apartment and long after the Jedi fell asleep on this couch.


	5. The Jedi High Council

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanlah must face the Jedi High Council and choose between Manus and her future as a Jedi.

**Suburban Jedi**

Chapter 5 – The Jedi High Council

Existent for nearly an age, Galactic City’s evolution begat a sprawling, planet-wide ecumenopolis forming a dense urban shroud over the planet Coruscant. Estimates placed its teeming population at over one trillion, mostly living under and within thousands of upward proliferating layers. Only the richest and most powerful inhabitants of the Republic's capital wandered the halls of the troposphere piercing skyscrapers rising from the foundations of the deep urban abyss like the fingers of buried giants reaching for the system’s distant sun.

The Jedi temple was one such place of power and authority. Set apart from the lofty Federal District, it was a low-rise sector dotted by small parks. Built over and within a natural mountain peak, the central temple spire was surrounded by four towers, one of which housed the High Council’s meeting chamber at its summit. Within this privileged space, Hanlah Aka stood rigid and still as a statue, scrutinized by the loftiest of all Jedi as they assembled themselves to hear her report and pass judgment for her and Manus’ failure to foil the Union’s conquest of Cabellar.

Grand Master Fae Coven, draped in her ceremonial robes, was the first to be seated. Though diminutive, her presence within the room was vast. Resembling a short, rodent-like humanoid with pink skin, the jenet's elongated and whiskered snout, pointed ears, and short, wiry fur did nothing to belie her authority and mastery of the Force. All the other masters bowed to her in respect and deferred sitting until she was ensconced upon her throne.

Following a hierarchy established by ancient tradition, the next to take their places were the four other lifetime Council members. Master Elpheuos Jon, a centenarian human male, who had distinguished himself fighting alongside Valenthyne Farfalla during the final battle of Ruusan, was a large, yet spry and agile man for his age with a friendly smile and pleasant demeanor. As he lowered himself into his chair, he tucked his long white beard into the sash encircling his ample belly. Sunlight reflected off his shiny, bald head. Having hinted of late that he would soon pass on to become “ _one with the Force,_ ” the halls of power were alive with rumor of who would ascend to be the next lifetime member of the Jedi Council.

A second human male, younger, but still mature, named Shawn Overmark was next to sit. Called “The Tester” for his role as the primary administer of the Trials of Jedi Knighthood, he was a stern, forbidding, and dark complexioned man. He spoke seldom to Jedi lower than the level of master except to correct and reproach. Every padawan feared and dared not disrespect him knowing they could never achieve the rank of Master without his approval. Hanlah registered Overmark's presence acutely, knowing that he especially among the Council, did not favor her and would be the foremost impediment to her becoming a Jedi Knight, let alone any rank beyond.

The final two lifetime members sat with eerie synchronicity. Twins, the bogrydyphths were six limbed, black and green insectoids named Kryth and Vryth. They were known as "The Tinkerers" because of their race's exceptional engineering abilities. It was a trait that endeared them to Hanlah, making them sympathetic Council members to mitigate Overmark's influential animosity. Though hermaphroditic, the twins exhibited feminine personalities earning them the pronoun "she."

Next, but in no defined order came the four long term members and the most likely replacement candidates for Elpheuos' soon to be vacant seat. Rossothyn Dirk, a human female expressed the most frequent and naked ambition to be admitted as a lifer. Her three compatriots were more reserved in their pursuit of this coveted advancement but no less eager.

Kyndolkh Klyck, a mon calamari, was an artist who dabbled in painting, sculpture, poetry, and music. Even the hilt of his lightsaber transformed upon command, thanks to the genius of "The Tinkerers", into a flute upon which he played when relaxing. Like most of his species, he despised chaotic and radical behavior, strictly adhering to rules and the accepted order. Thus he was another foe to Hanlah's advancement and likely would be eager to paint Manus' deeds, and by proxy Hanlah’s every action, in a negative light.

A reptilian humanoid of the draethos species named Braythundal’nool was the third. Her scaly, blue-green skin and lipless mouth with her large, exposed predatory teeth presented a frightening visage to those unfamiliar with her pacifistic philosophy and vast intelligence. Relying as a race upon telepathy for communication, most draethos were disinclined to speak. Braythundal’nool often remained silent through entire Council meetings only nodding or shaking her head when the time came to vote on a particular issue. When she did use her voice, the rare event was made more noteworthy by her habit of manipulating her arms and legs in a carefully choreographed harmony of movement to generate a soothing musical jingle from the interaction of the numerous silver bangles adorning her wrists and ankles.

The last of the long term members was Arnilde Kender, a middle-aged human male and master of Force lore. Tall and slender, the red-haired, freckle faced scholar had once been Manus' trainer. Theirs had been an awkward master-padawan relationship due to the incompatibility of their personalities. Kender traveled only as necessary to further his research, preferring to never leave the comfort of his office at the university. Manus, in contrast, wished to explore the galaxy and meet its peoples. Kender abhorred violence and trained with his lightsaber the minimum required to maintain proficiency. Manus' blade was an extension of his body that he exercised with fanatical devotion. Matters political that were an annoyance interrupting Kender's research, were to Manus a central reason for becoming a Jedi.

Of the three limited term members, only Qordi, a bothan, was present; the missing pair being away on separate missions for the Council. Hanlah eyed the short, mammalian anthropoid keenly, knowing he was the least capable of the masters present at disguising his feelings. Though Qordi’s canine facial features bore an inscrutable expression of impassive tranquility, the subtle shifting hues of his fur from tawny to scarlet and back again betrayed an underlying state of agitation. It was an involuntary attribute of his race revealing his true mental state to those like Hanlah who knew how to interpret it, but the revelation only augmented her sense of foreboding regarding the antagonistic nature of the forthcoming discussion.

Once Qordi was settled, the assembly began by chanting the traditional Jedi oath.

“ _With all of us may the Force be,_

_and may the peace of this temple be ours,_

_a place open to thought and speech,_

_a realm of mutual respect,_

_and a haven of shared noble purpose._

_Let us take these seats together, with no one above the others._

_May we work together, free from the restraints of ego and jealousy,_

_at this gathering and all others to come_.”

The evident hypocrisy of the chant was not lost on Hanlah. There was a clear hierarchy on this council as evinced by their deference in movement preceding the oath and the clear distinctions among its members by appointment term.

“... _no one above the others_...” appeared to be more of a guideline than a hard fast rule. Hanlah hoped that the words “… _mutual respect_ …” and “… _a shared noble pur_ pose…” would be honored when they turned their attention to her.

Grand Master Coven, as always during her reign, spoke first.

“We have a single agenda item for this gathering and that is the matter of Knight Manus Olcan’s abuse of the Force and its subsequent ramifications for the safety of our galaxy. As a witness to this event, his padawan, Hanlah Aka, will inform the Council of the circumstances that precipitated this crisis so that we may determine appropriate measures to contend with it.”

For the first time, Fae turned her attention to the patient sith.

“Relate your tale to the Council, padawan.”

Hanlah delivered her narration as ordered. From Manus' meeting with the pirate king, through to his battle with Darth Coir, to her own narrow escape from Cabellar, she omitted only the particulars she thought injurious to Manus’ defense.

The plethora of disturbing news agitated the Council, but the Jedi were possessed of strong mental control and restraint, listening without interrupting. When Hanlah finished, distraught eyes turned to the Grand Master.

"This unnerving re-emergence of the Sith at the heart of the Union is a startling discovery," said Coven. "You were wise, Padawan, not to mention it in your advance report. We must deal with that as an addendum item to this meeting. The paramount issue, however, still lies before us. The effect of only one of these 'tears' as you have named them was perceived here on Coruscant. I suspect it was the last one, when the Sith's lightsaber became entangled with it, magnifying its potency. Whatever damage to the Force that caused was profound indeed for us to sense it at so great a distance. Did Manus ever speak to you of this power or how he acquired it?"

"No, Grand Master. I had no knowledge such things were possible until Cabellar."

Arnilde shuffled nervously in his seat, and all eyes turned to him including Fae Coven's.

"Do you have something to add to this mystery, Master Kender?" she inquired.

"I am afraid that I do," he answered. "I suspect Knight Olcan may have learned of it from me."

"You were aware of this evil ability and did not alert the Council?" Shock was evident in her voice.

"I was aware of what I thought was an impossible legend," he corrected hoping to minimize the extent of his duplicity. "Many years back, I came across an ancient reference to sorcery with similar characteristics to what the padawan has described, entombed among works purporting to document the creation of the universe. Of course, such texts are without fail mere mythology, and that is how I treated this one. Manus, however, who normally eschewed anything academic did take an inordinate and surprising interest in this at the time. I was pleased with his willingness to pursue something scholarly for a change, and afforded him free reign to investigate. Possessed of an unenviable wanderlust, he was eager to travel and seek for clues wherever this pilgrimage took him. I requested only that he inform me of his discoveries upon his return."

"What did you and he learn?" probed Fae.

"Precious little on my part other than unsubstantiated tales of being able to manipulate the very fabric of the Force, recreate or uncreate the universe, and travel beyond the boundaries of our existence to infinite other realities. Intriguing? Certainly, but not something I considered worthy of serious research at the time."

"Manus clearly thought otherwise, and he discovered its secret, or at least part of its secret."

"Yes. I dare say he did. Obviously, I was correct to encourage him, though disappointed that he kept so much hidden from me. Now that he has demonstrated the legend's efficacy, I shall have to revisit the topic again after I complete my current backlog of..."

"Pardon my abruptness, Master Kender, but I suggest you prioritize duplicating Knight Olcan's research so that this topic resides at the front of your long queue of projects. Padawan Aka's tidings are both dire and explicit. The tear did not close. It may still be drifting through our Galaxy capable of apocalyptic destruction. We must learn all we can about it's nature, find it, and repair the damage."

"Ah. Yes," admitted Kender, abashed by her correction. "I see your point. I will divert all my efforts to the solution of this conundrum."

Hanlah worried over Fae's implicitly proposed solution.

"Pardon me, Grand Master, but by repair, do you mean close?"

"I do."

"What about Manus? Shouldn't we explore beyond the tear first? He may be alive and in need of rescue."

The jenet's icy glare afforded Hanlah little comfort.

"If this rogue phenomenon poses the calamitous threat to this universe that legend implies, then we cannot afford the luxury of following misplaced feelings of loyalty and amity for a single person. Knight Olcan brought about this disaster by tampering with things he should not have. He has shown poor judgment unworthy of a Jedi. Our first priority is protection of the galaxy. If he must be sacrificed to that end, then so be it."

"Surely you cannot mean that," gasped Hanlah, stunned by the Grand Master’s lack of compassion.

Unblinking brown eyes glared back, gleaming with irresolute persistence, promising neither solace nor compromise regarding Manus’ fate.

"Take care with all that you say and don’t say, Padawan,” Fae continued redirecting the focus of her ire towards Hanlah. The jenet’s snout twitched subtly as if sniffing something distasteful in the air. “You have been less than forthright with this Council. Errors of omission are lies nonetheless."

"I don't know what you mean..."

"I sensed her duplicity also," accused Kyndolkh, his bulbous eyes swiveling to lock with Hanlah's as if attempting to penetrate her skull and divine her thoughts.

Hanlah fought to clear her mind of guilt and doubt concerning Manus, but the Council was not deceived.

"Manus lusts for power beyond that of a mere Knight," intoned the Mon Calamari as though he were stealing Hanlah's own conclusions about her missing master. "He desires to rule this Council for his own glory and not out of beneficence or the needs of the Republic’s citizens."

"No!" shouted Hanlah. "That's not true. It's just my..."

"Silence!" ordered the Grand Master. The power of the Force accompanied her command, compelling the impudent padawan to comply.

Offended by Hanlah’s galling outburst, Kyndolkh smacked his fish-like lips and gurgled deep in his throat before resuming.

"Manus Olcan is treading currents that will inevitably sweep him towards the abyssal depths of the dark side. Choosing this unsuitable padawan was but one misstep along that path."

The Council’s wrath had shifted from Manus to Hanlah, who struggled to inure herself from their long-standing animosity, while still attempting to protect her master.

"All that you say about Knight Olcan is based on my feelings and personal insecurities. It is nothing but hearsay. The only way to prove Manus' innocence is to bring him here and let him speak for himself. I can begin my search for the tear at once," propounded Hanlah, bowing respectfully, "I have some readings from a scanner that may..."

"Your search?" interrupted the jenet. "Do not dare to presume the will of this august body. You are forbidden to pursue the tear except to the extent that you will assist Master Kender. Everything you know about it, including your scanner readings, will be turned over to him so that he may lead this investigation."

The rebuke stung, but a small spark of hope smoldered within Hanlah’s heart.

"Does this mean Master Kender will be my trainer until Knight Olcan returns?"

The thin, red lines of Kender's eyebrows rose in surprised arches expressing his dissatisfaction with such a horrendous prospect. Before he could protest, though, Master Overmark intervened with the tone of a judge delivering a verdict of doom.

"No one shall be your trainer, Ms. Aka.”

Overmark’s refusal to address her by her title of padawan was an ominous insult.

“If and when Manus Olcan is brought before us,” he intoned grimly, “we will judge whether he is fit to continue to serve as a member of the Jedi order; a prospect as dubious at present as yours. Once banned, Olcan will no longer be able to serve as your trainer, and I am unaware of any Jedi willing take you on as a padawan. Sith should not be Jedi. They are inherently unsuitable."

Hanlah waited for Overmark's unjust and hateful statements to be repudiated by the others, but only the multifaceted eyes of the twins and those of Master Jon returned any hint of sympathy, and they remained neutral, refusing to take sides. Masters Coven, Klyck, Kender, Dirk, Braythundal’nool, and Qordi nodded their agreement with Overmark. All the prejudice and bigotry Hanlah had ever suffered, overtly or implicitly, was now official Jedi doctrine.

Their calumny threatened to degrade her stoic facade and release long repressed rage. The acidic bile of injustice rose in her throat, setting her nerves afire as it did. Unbidden and irrepressible, anger and malevolence infused with the potency of the dark side flowed with it. Not since the end of her formative years, when she first became aware of the dual nature of the Force and had rejected the dark side that was so integral to her natural heritage, had Hanlah experienced the raw power accompanying the Force’s forbidden half. Its unstoppable resurgence was more terrifying than the censure of the wise sitting in judgment of her.

As a padawan, Hanlah had ever been successful at keeping the dark at bay, but some recent, fundamental change allowed long suppressed inner shadows to escape their prison. Seeking its cause, she delved into her own psyche to discover that her response to the Council’s inequity was subsidiary to a deeper corruption of her innermost being. A lurking demon hid at her core.

Rumors of what awaited errant Jedi in the Force’s black realm had haunted her doubt filled nightmares for years. Sucking pits void of light, mirrors reflecting mocking versions of one's own self, tunnels crawling with chimeras, and encounters with one’s greatest fear among them. Strangely, her current experience was nothing like those bleak tales. The dark was a warm, enveloping blanket surrounding Hanlah like the protective arms of her mother, offering sanctuary and the strength to set right the wrongs perpetrated against her. For a dozen heartbeats she remained entranced by the seductive allure of this new source of power. Then, a voice whispered to her and her alone.

" _Surrender to passion and set yourself free,_ " it enticed.

Though unrecognizable at first, it’s essence soon became clear. A residue of the Sith she had fought on Cabellar had fused with her spirit to become an unwelcome addition to her Force sense. Cajoling, inveigling, and beguiling, it sought to coax her down the path of black passion to victory over her tormentors.

" _Vengeance. Justice. Vindication_...," it promised, but she was not ensnared.

"No!" she shouted, willing herself far from anger and rage to a familiar place of calm that was her mind’s true home. Banishing the haunting shadows forever was impossible, but as she ever did, Hanlah willed racial proclivity to retreat back into the far corners of her soul until peace reigned again.

The disturbing episode lasted less than a score of steady heartbeats, and was to Hanlah a moment of private temptation successfully repulsed, but the Council experienced it differently. Inky mists of dark energy manifested about her, filling the air, dimming the light, accompanied by a siren’s song. Power, threatening destruction and ruin for those who dared resist, crackled within the gloom like incipient lightning.

Conjoining their strength to combat the evil, the wisest and mightiest of Jedi braced themselves for what seemed like an imminent attack. Qordi palmed his lightsaber with his thumb hovering a hair’s breadth above the activation switch. Tense seconds foreboding violence passed as Hanlah hung at the edge of her inner black abyss until, without warning, the gloom surrounding the padawan retreated rapidly within her.

Having reclaimed her balance, Hanlah stood poised and serene ready to continue her interrogation, but a phalanx of faces expressing undisguised horror and hostility confronted her. Any attempt to salvage her prospects within the Jedi order had been shattered forever.

“She brings temptation towards malignancy to this sacred place,” spoke Braythundal’nool in an uncharacteristic outburst of outrage, her distress enhanced by the agitated movement of her limbs and subsequent discordant melody of her jangling jewelry.

"Sith sorcery! Abomination!" shouted Klyck. "What more evidence do we need that she is irrevocably chained to the dark?"

"None," added Overmark calmly but with palpable vehemence. To Hanlah he accused, "It is this behavior that will be exposed if you ever attempt the trials of knighthood. Becoming a Jedi is clearly impossible, being what you are."

Hanlah mentally mustered arguments in her defense: her previous success at controlling her latent genetic tendency, her daily dedication to the light, and her numerous benevolent acts and deeds, but she spoke none of them aloud. This audience was beyond her ability to persuade. Judgment had been passed upon her years before. They had found her lacking when Manus first adopted her as his padawan and awaited only for this opportunity to banish her from the Jedi order with a clean conscience.

During Hanlah’s silence, more proclamations from the other members of the Council regarding her unsuitability followed. Even those who had once pitied her had witnessed that which they could not abide. There was no longer an open heart or a home for her among the Jedi.

Once again, Hanlah was alone in the universe, cast out just as she had been by her people and her family when she first proclaimed her pursuit of the light to the exclusion of the dark. Isolation was a familiar, if unhappy state, but she was inured to it. Hiding behind a protective shield of tranquility and acceptance that made the pain easier to bear was as natural to her as breathing, but she found her encounter with Darth Coir and Manus’ tear had altered her accustomed defense.

Imaginary veils in her mind summoned to guard her thoughts and emotions from the intrusion of others had never been strong enough to foil those with greater Force mastery, but now, tangible threads grew and wove together with the Force forming an impenetrable field of obscurity about her. A previously undiscovered ability to render her physical and psychic selves nearly invisible was unexpectedly hers to control. Wary of revealing her dark side enhancement to the Council, she restrained its effect to deflecting and deceiving their mental probes. They saw only a facade of acceptance instead of her hidden, conflicted conscience.

Suspicious of the origin of this novel power and its association with the dark side, Hanlah wished to banish or bury it away for later scrutiny and investigation, but she needed its efficacy to salvage any hope of gaining leniency from the Council. The compromise was pure agony. Later, she promised herself, when she was alone, she would meditate and find a way to scrub the stain clean and become one with the light again. Until then, Grand Master Coven's voice was calling her back from her forlorn brooding.

"Padawan Aka? Are you listening to me?"

"Yes, Grand Master. I am," lied Hanlah.

Coven and the other masters were duped by the dark side deception but suspicious of her nonetheless.

"You are uncannily accepting of our decision. I wonder if you fully understand its ramifications."

"I do. You have forbidden me from continuing my studies to become a Jedi knight, and wish to compel me to work with Master Kender to locate and close the tear that Knight Olcan created."

"That is one way to state it, but ‘ _comp_ _el_ ’ is a harsh word considering your obligations to the order..."

Emboldened by her ability to conceal her emotions and project an outward facade of willingness to cooperate that she did not feel, Hanlah braved interrupting the Grand Master.

"No. That is untrue. By banishing me from the Jedi order, you made me just another citizen of the Republic and subject to its authority. To force me now to do your bidding is to risk enslaving me against my will. The Republic has laws protecting its citizens against such practices, and since I have broken none, you cannot legally detain me."

"We have the influence with the Senate to convince them to make an exception in this emergency situation."

"True, but not in any reasonable time. The Senate is a notoriously ponderous body, likely to debate this for days. In that time, I could easily escape to the Outer Rim. You would be powerless to stop me without circumventing the rule of law and thus shattering your highest ideals."

Fae’s brow furrowed slightly. Despotism was an ever-present danger in any system of governance. Pursuing convenient short cuts even for a righteous goal was a clear deviation from the way of the light. Being reminded of it by a mere padawan galled the Grand Master’s ego.

"That is your intent then?" she countered. “To flee?”

The Council hung expectant and immobile awaiting Hanlah’s response. Hanlah knew what they assumed she would say, and delighted in confounding their bigoted preconceptions.

"No. Despite what you think of me, I am dedicated to the light and the noble goals of the order above all. I will cooperate by assisting Master Kender to locate the tear and even to close it if necessary."

Righteously skeptical eyes scried her intent as she spoke, searching for the lies and deception they presumed lurked underneath, but Hanlah's new cloak was an impenetrable screen broadcasting an image of a guileless paragon.

Grand Master Coven cleared her throat. Eager to end this awkward encounter, she waved her paw-like hand in the air and pointed towards the exit.

"You are dismissed, but not free to go where you please. Quarters will be found for you at the University. Master Qordi will escort you there, where you shall stay until called to work with Master Kender. You shall not attempt to part Masters Qordi and Kender’s company for any reason other than to rest in your chambers. Is that understood?"

"It is, Grand Master."

Hanlah waited only for the bothan to stroll to her side before she turned to leave. Having taken but a few strides, though, she was stopped by Master Overmark's request.

"Padawan. Your lightsaber, if you please."

Implying that she was both dangerous and untrustworthy, the thinly veiled command was an insult she found difficult to bear, but Hanlah was grateful that he had not taken her weapon by force. With regret, she removed the carefully crafted sword hilt from her belt and let Overmark levitate it to rest upon a small table.

Bowing respectfully, she departed the company of her tormentors before resentment precipitated a second dark side episode. Contemplative silenced reigned in her wake for long minutes, each councilor querying the Force for answers and guidance. Master Overmark was the first to speak.

"Padawan Aka should not be trusted no matter how sincere she appears, and Master Kender...” Overmark tilted his head towards his fellow Jedi, “...please forgive my criticism...” before returning his grim gaze to the Grand Master, “...is not the best choice to monitor her and uncover the guile and deceit I believe her to be hiding. It is possible to be too credulous and oblivious of the ulterior motives of others."

"I won't deny that,” agreed Kender, “but her assistance in unraveling this mystery....I need to work with her directly to discover what she learned from Manus and interpret whatever scans..."

"And you shall have that opportunity,” promised Overmark. “I am only proposing that I also be present, haunting her steps, spying on her, and ensuring she does not attempt to use you for her own ends, whatever those may be."

"An excellent plan, Masters Kender and Overmark,” decided Coven. “You may proceed. Now, let's turn our thought to the matter of breaking the Union and reconstituting the pirate confederation. Knight Olcan may have done us a great favor by eliminating the Sith..."

  


Qordi kept close to Hanlah's side during their journey. Though he was her guard and jailer, he honored her dignity by letting her lead the way as though he was merely her traveling companion. Their destination was the Fobosi District, where the University of Coruscant dominated much of the skyline.

Having spent several years as a student within its scholastic halls, Hanlah was familiar and comfortable with its ascetic ambiance including the austere, cell-like quarters located deep within the bowels of the campus that were destined to be her home and prison for foreseeable future. Tiny, the apartment lacked windows or any other exit, but she bid Qordi a fond goodnight and entered willingly, grateful for the privacy and the opportunity to meditate. Upon the room’s single bed, a droid had placed her personal items. From among them she unrolled a small mat and spread it on the floor. Hoping for enlightenment, she entered an accustomed state of trance, but found little solace therein.

Her conscience was troubled by her easy acceptance and use of what she knew to be a dark side-derived power that she now wished to forswear, but without the camouflage cloaking her thoughts and emotions, the Council would immediately sense her subterfuge and work to prevent any attempt she made to rescue her lost master. Trapped between the competing desires of saving Manus and honoring the ways of the wise, shame for the betrayal she was plotting against those she had once admired tormented her.

Aware that her inability to convince the Council using reason and persuasion, combined with her feelings of loyalty and friendship towards Manus, had overridden her allegiance to the Jedi code, Hanlah feared she had been seduced. With no one to serve as her mentor, and in desperate need of guidance, she turned inward, probing deep into her personal connection with the Force. Much of what she found there was familiar, but newness pervaded that intangible realm also. Somehow, her battle with Coir, linked with the energy from the tear, had imprinted a part of him on her soul. His rage and vengeance filled face stared back at her whenever she scrutinized the gift that their contentious encounter had bestowed, but his rage was not her rage. Her innate calm prevailed alongside his petulance as if viewing the behavior of a sullen child.

Turning her thoughts to the lessons that Manus had taught her, she discovered novelty there also. All Force users understood and envisioned at some level the warp and weft of the threads that connected all living matter. Hanlah used that imagery whenever she touched the Force, but now the all-pervasive fabric was startlingly vibrant, and its complex, enigmatic structure and purpose so clear and intelligible that she imagined herself capable of plucking the strings to generate notes and chords capable of re-harmonizing the local structure of reality. An unnerving sense of superhuman responsibility stayed her hand from attempting something so profound. Equally disturbing was an accompanying image of Manus greeting her, haughty, arrogant, and thirsting for power. The emotional impact of the scene returned her abruptly to full consciousness.

How much of what she had seen was real and how much was simply a projection of her own fears, she could not fathom. Concerns over her entanglement with the dark side remained, but the lack on her part of negative emotions connected directly to it lent hope that she was not straying down that evil road. Perhaps she had even found the mythic balance within the duality of the Force. Doubting her ability to divine the meaning of something so philosophically profound, she shifted her inquiries to what she hoped would be the less metaphysically challenging problem of locating the tear, assuming that it remained open.

Hanlah was nearly certain that it had. Her sensor’s readings indicated that it was stable in every aspect but its motion. Determining its speed and direction would be challenging. It was an extraordinarily complicated problem of multiple, complex, and as yet unknown controlling factors, but her meditation session had yielded to her one valuable conclusion. The Force signatures of Manus, Coir, and to a lesser degree, herself, were integral components of the phenomenon and hence necessary data for input into any model used to predict the tear’s behavior. With Manus and Coir lost, two critical variables were missing ensuring that whatever equation Master Kender and her developed would be unsolvable, unless Hanlah discovered how to make herself serve as a proxy for the missing Force users.

It was Hanlah’s belief that she could become that link. Elements of their Force essence lived within her. Manus’ was stronger than Coir’s due to long association, but not by much. The violence of her encounter with the Sith had left a robust impression especially when coupled with her innate species affinity towards the dark side. Neither of their essences were complete enough to provide her the precision input she needed, but given some time to research their pasts, walk in their steps, and consult with influential people in their lives, she was confident she would attain enlightenment. It would be a physical and spiritual journey requiring extensive travel, travel forbidden by the Council, that could only begin after she learned where Manus had begun his inquiry into the legends that Kender had foolishly scorned.

Until that location was revealed, she would appear to be cooperative and help Master Kender exhaust the logical avenues of scientific and historical research. She would honor her pledge to the Council at least that far before she turned renegade, never revealing her secret psychic connection to the tear.

Tranquility accompanied her decision, lending her confidence that it was correct. Barely perceptible filaments of exuberance and terror resulting from the intermingling of contradictory antipodes fostered doubt, but an unshakable feeling of righteousness prevailed. Bereft of guidance from the wise, she meekly accepted intuition over reason.

To distract herself from further vacillation, she retrieved her tools from her pack and set about modifying equipment she had on hand with no real purpose other than to lose herself in the joy of inventing. After several sleep cycles alone like that, she had improved her sensor tools, extending their range to cover several parsecs when connected to a suitable power source such as a ship's hyperdrive. She had also built a new light saber disguised as a welding tool. To ignite a controllable plasma stream and become effective, she only needed a suitable crystal.

Having learned all she could from the data she had captured on Cabellar, there was nothing else she needed from Master Kender other than the name of the system Manus had used as a launching point to seek the legend's source. It was thus, when Masters Kender and Overmark came for her at last, she was ready to begin the inevitable game of cat and mouse that she and they would each play. To triumph, she had to appear cooperative by helping Kender make suitable progress, while yielding nothing of real value towards his search. Under no circumstances would she divulge her suspicion that she was the nexus between Manus, Coir, and the tear. If the Council learned her secrete, they would ensure she never escaped.

  


Weeks of labor passed, and the task of deceiving Kender proved harder than Hanlah envisaged. Even with her true motives veiled, the Jedi scholar insisted on understanding every nuance of what had happened on Cabellar before he would share any of his closely guarded knowledge, ultimately refusing to impart anything she didn’t already know.

“The information you seek will become clear when the final model is run,” he always answered in response to her persistent inquiries. “I know what to input for starting conditions, and that is sufficient. Your job is to help me derive the rest of the equation.”

Overmark’s intermittent, but oppressive, presence was to blame for Kender’s stubborn pragmatism, and Hanlah was powerless to thwart the two masters other than by helping them to achieve superficially positive progress that she knew would lead nowhere in the end. Yet despite her best efforts, Master Kender began veering dangerously close to discovering her secret.

“I’m especially puzzled by the seemingly chaotic behavior of the tear indicated by your sensor readings and the initial output of our model. The equation is missing a key variable or two that don’t seem to obey traditional theories of physics. Some quality of the Force is involved perhaps, but I don’t know...maybe something quasi-random...”

In desperate reaction to Kender’s proximal approach to the truth, Hanlah gambled upon a risky proposal that would guide him dangerously closer.

“The University’s supercomputer has artificial intelligence with stochastic capabilities,” she suggested.

“The BRT? Isn’t it just a prototype?”

“HU-BRT-13-XJ,” Hanlah corrected. “True, Hubert is experimental, but it operates at a planetary scale connected as it is to millions of networks and mainframes. Initial runs at representing chaos driven systems have proved promising. Perhaps if we let it process the trillions of non-unique scenarios that might describe the movement of the tear...it may not discover the final answer, but...”

“But it may give us insight into the nature of the missing variables!” finished Kender. “That is a brilliant suggestion, padawan.”

“Is it?” Interrupted Overmark, who had been lurking at the edge of their conversation. “Or is this a trick? Why this insightful suggestion now, when all her previous assistance was so useless?”

“You are being unfair. It might have taken me years to get this far without her.”

Overmark ignored any implication that Hanlah was an asset to the search.

“I suspect it is because that computer is buried at the very lowest level beneath the pre-city surface foundation. The labyrinth of transpiration tunnels just below would provide a convenient avenue of escape.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Master Overmark,” chided Kender.

“I am never that,” replied Overmark. “I am cautious and wary. Hubert has only one input control center located within the computer’s core. I forbid allowing her near it.”

“Security and progress are conflicting goals, but I believe that there is a compromise. I am good friends with one of the researchers for the Aratech Repulsor Company. She is the lead developer of this marvelous machine. I am certain I can convince her to install an interface in my office. The opportunity to test its power with a problem of this magnitude will be irresistible. There will be no need for the padawan to leave this level of the university.”

Hanlah kept silent as Overmark and Kender argued over other security concerns. Overmark insisted that the computer be isolated from all networks to avoid any chance of cyber intruders learning about the tear. Kender was against anything that retarded the computer’s full capacity but tentatively agreed to this limitation on the condition that Hanlah be allowed to help with constructing the mathematical model and coding it into the computer. Overmark was just as displeased with the padawan’s direct involvement with the AI but yielded because it seemed certain that Kender could not do it on his own.

Several more weeks were required to prepare the simulations, during which Master Overmark was present whenever Hanlah was outside her quarters. Confined to her room during her off-hours, Qordi was an ever present sentry just outside her door. Desirous of her help, the Council also wanted her contained. Certain that Overmark would deny her access to the final result of her labor, Hanlah began making plans to ensure it was the Council who learned nothing from Hubert.

The galaxy's most complex artificial brain would eventually discover what meditation had yielded to her. No choice existed for Hanlah other than to sabotage the effort before she escaped. Kender would certainly recover from the setback, but without Hubert, it would take months, time enough for her to find the tear first.

  


Ten days into the simulation, Hubert was converging towards a solution. Superfluous and unwanted, Hanlah was returned to her cell, guarded as usual by the furry Jedi, Qordi. Confident in their security, the Council trusted that a single master was adequate guard for one errant padawan.

Hubris foreshadowed failure, for Hanlah was not idle during her rest cycles even after each long day of toil alongside Master Kender. Sacrificing meditation, her mind instead churned each night with numerous escape plans, most of which she discarded in turn. Accomplished minds were bending the Force against her, precluding all obvious ideas such as utilizing her chameleon cloaking device, making herself invisible, or cutting through the walls with her tools. Those were exactly the tricks the Council expected she would try. Many a sleepless night ended in frustration until she was inspired by a remembered quote form the ex-pirate king, Brenin Morleider. His criminal philosophy of simple tricks being the best held wisdom appropriate to her need.

All buildings required air handling systems for climate control and the overall comfort of their occupants. Her room included a single small vent, too narrow for most humanoids, but potentially passable for one of her slight frame and nimble agility. To the greatest of Jedi masters, including the bothan, who were all larger of frame than her, its potential for escape was too absurd to be a consideration. Even Hanlah was uncertain if she could pass without becoming stuck, but saw no choice but to try.

The vent cover was easily removed, and after several days of fasting, she stripped down to her undergarments, applied a liberal application of oil to her skin, tucked her arms against her side, and wriggled like a worm through the constricted tunnel. Her bone spurs were a hindrance, and progress was slow, but she managed to reach a junction with a wider section of duct. From there, the passage was large enough for her to crawl. Returning to her quarters was equally challenging, but she exulted in her success and her timing because the next morning marked the beginning of her forced isolation.

Calculating that Hubert would converge upon a solution within sixteen hours, Hanlah let Qordi and Overmark escort her back to her room for the last time. Sitting cross legged on the floor, she entered a trance, but not to meditate. No calming hours of reflection awaited; not when communion with the dark side was her goal. Weaving black strands of Force in her mind, she built a web of deceit providing the illusion that she was simply resting when, in fact, she was putting her escape plan in motion.

Into a sturdy pack she stored her light saber, fully functional now that it contained crystals she had stolen from Kender's private collection. With it went water, some rations, her tools, clothing, a compact enviro-suit, and her meditation mat. A strap around her ankle allowed her to drag the bundle in her wake.

Once into the wider duct, she rested a few minutes, dressed, re-hydrated, and ate a small meal to restore her energy reserves before following a pre-charted path to her ultimate destination. A legion of small crawling and flying drones of her design had spent the previous days mapping the least dangerous and most expedient route, but the journey still necessitated navigating a labyrinth of horizontal and vertical passages. Fans, air conditioning units, filters, and key-coded bulkheads were the most common obstacles slowing, but failing to impede, her progress.

To foil locked barriers, Hanlah hijacked cleaning and maintenance droids extracting their encrypted access codes. Rather than release them afterwards, she fitted them with restraining bolts. She eventually possessed a small army of droids converted to obey her will by the time she had descended to the bedrock roots of the university.

One final sealed portal lay between her and her goal. Even maintenance droids were not allowed beyond, so no codes existed to pry from their memory banks. Instead, Hanlah resorted to cipher breaking algorithms, but when they failed, she was left with no choice but to use her lightsaber, an action that was certain to send a clear signal to her captors. Time was running short. Unless she acted immediately, Hubert’s simulations would terminate, the Council would realize her unique role in locating the tear, discover her absence, and immediately deduce her intent, and hence, her present location.

Donning her enviro-suit, she prepared herself for the super-cooled, vacuum-sealed conditions she would face within the chamber that housed Hubert’s core processors and more critically, an input station from which she could command absolute control over the impressive computer. Plasma slowly cut away the surrounding durasteel until nothing remained to support the portal. Atmospheric pressure finished her task by forcing the circular steel barrier inward. With a puff of wind, what little atmosphere and heat had been trapped with Hanlah between this and the previous barrier dispersed exposing her to icy chill despite her protective suit. Accompanying moisture instantly froze into tiny crystals settling to the floor in a brief shower of snow.

The service droids, having not been constructed for such harsh conditions, froze, entering hibernation. It was no matter. Hanlah did not need their help, only their power systems, which she carefully removed.

“Don’t worry,” she assured each in turn as she magnetically coupled them in place while removing what she needed. “Your battery reserves will keep until this is over and your energy packs are replaced.”

The small amount of air and warmth invading the hermetically sealed vault triggered an alarm, but no defensive systems at the computer's core were present to stop the padawan. Automated systems worked to lower the temperature to ideal and restore the vacuum while Hanlah hacked the control console and established an infinitely resetting, encrypted lock on the one personnel entrance through which Overmark would surely come.

Hanlah knew it would be him. She sensed his anxious Force presence reaching out for her already. The door was thick and sturdy, but it would not long stand against someone wielding so much power, mastery, and determination. Hurrying, she soldered wires, connecting her pirated power supplies to a central initiator slaved to a remote switch attached to her wrist.

Skilled and efficient, she completed her tasks unimpeded. Prudence dictated that she cripple Hubert and escape, but only she was now able to interact with it, and the AI was reporting that it was mere minutes from its solution. Compelled by her conscience to save Manus, she directed Hubert to display its answer, when it arrived, on a small monitor on the opposite side of the room from the door that was just beginning to glow from the intense heat of a lightsaber's plasma.

A race was underway between Jedi Master and AI. Hanlah slowed her heart rate and breathing, entering a calming trance to await whichever triumphed. Overmark was the victor, but only by a few seconds. Alone and similarly equipped as her for the uncompromising environment, he entered. Ignoring his glare of animosity, Hanlah noted Hubert’s result, initiated a data wipe, and cleared the screen.

“Move away from that console,” Overmark ordered.

“As you wish,” said Hanlah, palming her lightsaber.

Projecting confidence and malevolence that she did not feel, Hanlah advanced towards the intimidating Master Jedi, stopping above a circular hatch from where she ignited her lightsaber and beckoned Overmark towards her.

"Sabotage," he accused stepping cautiously forward. “I knew I was correct about you. Sith born, Sith raised, and Sith contaminated to the core. Whatever plot you are hatching ends here.”

Steadying herself as Overmark moved to within striking distance, she risked attack in order to allow him to reach a point she deemed safe.

"You are an exemplary Jedi, Master Overmark,” she interjected hoping to forestall his inevitable strike, “but I am disappointed that one so wise allows prejudice to color his perception.”

“Prejudice? The evidence of your evil is incontrovertible.”

“Is it? I suppose your limited exposure to me must make it seem so, but please let my deeds speak for my intentions, and judge them impartially."

“You speak as if there is a future for you beyond this moment.”

“There may be, if I my hasty work doesn’t result in too rapid of an energy release.”

Hanlah held her left forearm up confronting Overmark with the switch attached to her wrist. Divining its purpose, the Councilor surveyed the room, espying the wires connected to the improvised explosives set around the perimeter. Reconnecting with her inscrutable gaze, he searched for some sense of purpose to her seemingly suicidal intent, but gleaned from her eyes a resolve more chilling than self annihilation.

“So, you intend to kill us both?” he asked. “What future is there in that?”

Hanlah said nothing as her hand moved towards the switch. Overmark stopped her finger a mere hair’s breadth from the contact by paralyzing her with the Force, but he had been duped. The trigger button was a ruse concealing a simple timer that finished its countdown at that moment.

Milliseconds separated the heat of roiling explosions from the subsequent snick of an iris opening beneath their feet. Emergency protective systems activating in response to the thermal threat, jettisoned the pair of Jedi ahead of the deadly blast to tumble down a shaft emptying into a vast cavern crisscrossed by sets of transport rails joining and splitting in an interconnected series of junctions before disappearing into dozens of openings perforating the walls of the spherical chamber. Automated cargo trains navigated the tracks at speeds varying from a crawl to hypersonic.

The plummeting Jedi deployed the Force and their billowing capes to arrest their fall and alight upon one such rapidly moving conveyance only to be nearly thrown off when the train abruptly slowed, decoupled into several sections, switched tracks and joined with another train to accelerate again, plunging into a black tunnel. Lit by their crackling blades, the darkness was a confusing roller coaster of shifting momentum and obstacles protruding from the tunnel walls.

Intent upon killing the renegade padawan for her treachery, Overmark pursued her relentlessly, driving the padawan toward the train’s lead car. Hanlah had no wish to harm the Jedi Master, but when she could retreat no further, she fought with the fury of a cornered animal until they emerged from the tunnel.

Leaping to an adjacent train, Hanlah hoped to lose her pursuer in the confusion of decoupling and shifting freight cars exchanging trains in a blinding sequence before diverging to disparate destinations. Stubbornly, the Tester remained with her during the chaos to resume their one-sided duel through another tunnel.

Defeating Overmark was the most doubtful outcome of Hanlah’s limited options. More credible loomed her own death. The middle ground, escape, held the greatest appeal, so at the next switching station, Hanlah leapt randomly and recklessly across perilously widening gaps between cars. The dangerous ploy appeared to work, until fate intervened at the last second coupling the car upon which Overmark was marooned to the end of her train. He chased after Hanlah again, but she was finished running, and held her ground. Their train was accelerating across the diameter of the largest gallery yet, and she had only one way out.

"You cannot win, Sith!” shouted Overmark above the sound of rushing air. “You lack the skill even with your dark side powers. Yield to me, and I shall show mercy."

"No, Master,” answered Hanlah with her golden blade blazing before her. “I can neither defeat you nor yield. I seek neither your mercy nor your justice. My one desire is to save Manus. Whether wise or not, it is the path along which both sides of the Force compel me."

"If you yield to the dark side, you will be forever beyond the Council's mercy."

"Perhaps, but I accept the dark anyway, hoping through its teachings, to be redeemed. Please forgive me if I fail and become what you believe me to be."

The train emerged into another switching cavern, Hanlah deactivated her saber, and launched herself backward into the stygian void. Overmark reached out with his mind to catch her and drag her back, but she was beyond his sight. Darth Coir’s gift shielded her completely but left her helpless to slow her fall. Only her mental calculation of a nearby flying droid's future position based on the daring assumption that its speed and trajectory would remain constant allowed her to clutch its carapace with one hand as it raced beneath, oblivious to her presence until her added weight sent it spiraling wildly in the dark. Plugging a restraining bolt into its CPU, she adjusted the bucking bot’s flight plan, and rode the compliant aircraft toward an obscure spaceport where she hoped to steal a ship.

Alone, Overmark was carried away, visible to Hanlah as a tiny, receding dot of shining cobalt. Though her extinguished Force signature implied death, he judged he had not seen the last of his prey and vowed to track her across the galaxy if necessary.

  



End file.
